


Here Again (Can't Stay Away)

by my_thestral



Series: Love by any other name... [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 06:51:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14279385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_thestral/pseuds/my_thestral
Summary: It's been less than two years after that dreadful war, and Draco isn't quite ready for a dating game. Sadly, his father would hear nothing of further delay and his fussing about "continuing the family line" is turning quite bothersome. And since he's always been the obedient son, Draco grudgingly agrees to go looking for a bride. Only, he runs into Ron Weasley instead... and that "finding a bride" mission doesn't quite go as expected. Er, it repeatedly doesn't go as well as expected, to be precise. With Weasel showing up again... and again, and just... ugh, being annoying Weasel, how could it, really?





	1. Looking for a bride, actually

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Candamira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candamira/gifts).



> This story was written with an intention to take part in the wonderful 2018 Ron/Draco fest but sadly, it wasn't written in time to be beta-ed by the deadline, so in spite of everyone's good intentions, it never made it as a part of the fest. It has nevertheless been betaed by the wonderful TheMightyFlynn, so I probably owe her a kidney for the epic work she's done. :) It's the first part of a two-part series, but it can be read as a standalone.  
> It was supposed to be a very modest gift for my very dear friend [Candamira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candamira) whose talent, generosity and kindness never cease to amaze me. I'm sorry it's not all that, darling, but I missed your b-day last year and I really wanted to make sure I'm not that lame, empty-handed friend yet again!  
> And because I just can't quit, it might or might not have a little sequel, called Enough... :)
> 
> Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

“Merlin’s ugly Crup  –  what are _you_ doing here?!”

Oh, God have mercy… not now… not here… not him. _Fucking Weasel._ What is he even doing here?!

Everyone knows that the Ministry receptions are not his forte… everyone who reads that rag, The Prophet, that is. Not that I do, no… I just glance through it, because it’s proper to stay informed… look at the pictures and such. And he’s rarely on them. Not that I would notice if he was, obviously. But he’s not. If I’d have to guess, I’d say he’s not comfortable sticking around snobbish places like this.

Though I have to confess that at least he learned to dress the part in the year or two since I’ve last seen him. No more rotting, centuries-old lace and scruffy sleeves for him, no… Ronald Weasley, with his tall, muscled frame and tailor-made cobalt-blue robes certainly looks like he could fit right in at the finest of socialité entertainment… well, at least his robes do. The man himself looks rather miserable, to be honest. Miserable… and pissed off. Surely not? He can’t still be holding a grudge! Oh, why does he have to be here tonight, of all the damn places?!

I’m trying very hard not to demonstrate my annoyance openly, but I only have to look up into those cerulean eyes, and something about him just… ugh… irritates me, all right?! It provokes and irritates me enough that I open my rash mouth and tell him the truth:

“Looking for a bride, actually.”

Well, at least the expression on his face was worth it. And you know what –  it feels surprisingly good to be able to speak out the truth and not to invest oneself constantly into keeping up pretences. I suppose there are things to appreciate about having Weasel around – we were always brutal and brutally honest with each other.

“The fuck? You lost one?” he finally mumbles, looking a tad bewildered. “Yours or someone else’s?”

Slightly irritated, I do realise my words came out a tad… _wrong_.

“No, you daft pillock! A bride, _my_ bride… a woman fit –  and willing –  to be my bride, you ginger log!”

“Good luck.” He smirks with that insolent smirk I just want to wipe off his freckled face with a well-aimed chair. “It might take you a while. Not too many blind birds with exceptionally poor taste in men here. In fact, I’m surprised they let you in,” he murmurs grudgingly, but the blue storm in his eyes seems to have somewhat subsided, and he just looks annoyed. “Don’t tell me –  it’s Harry and his fucking _‘There’s been enough victims already’_ guilt trip, isn’t it?” he groans. “So, uhm, who have you got your eye on, then? Anyone in particular daddy dearest picked for you? Or are you free to choose?”

God, that infuriating lopsided grin… Transporting here without my wand –  as per Ministry requirement –  was hard enough, thank you very much, but not having one at hand when you want to hex Weasel in the arse –  that’s just inhumane! Well, I can at least _try_ to bite back…

“I’m not you, Weasel. I don’t have to be all boring and predictable and marry a woman so much like Mummy dearest! What? Oh, why the beaten Crup look?! You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed the similarities: bossy, annoyingly caring, accomplished at what she does, likes to read… well, perhaps not only the housekeeping advice in The Prophet, but…”

“Shut the fuck up!”

At least he’d hissed it, not yelled it, like in the old times, but after a flicker of shock there’s a hint of the old Weasel somewhere inside those savage, angry eyes  –  mean, raw, and made of fire.

“Like you are going to do so much better!” he spits quietly. “You can’t tell me you’re not looking for a trophy wife; a perfectly polished porcelain doll to smile for portraits with. Or are you, perhaps, going to be extravagant and pick someone like that mad aunt of yours? Parkinson always seemed like she could do the job. She was just a bit too eager to sell the lot of us to the Death Eaters that evening in Hogwarts –  I bet she could step right into that monster’s shoes, and still look classy doing it!”

I’m… stunned. At least for the moment. That bastard! How dare he! He only had to endure my mad Aunt Bella for a total of about half an hour; I spent months with that bitch! But I can’t let him have it. I can’t show him how he got to me. Luckily, spending the said months in the company of the Dark Lord had at least taught me about keeping my feelings, anger included, in check. So, I swallow the insult I was going to hiss in his face together with the worst of my wrath, and I smile at him instead.

“Oh, but the thing is –  I would fit with either,” I tell him coolly. “With a porcelain trophy wife, as long as she’s alive and breathing for long enough to give me an heir –  or with a classy bitch like Pansy. I honestly don’t have a preference. I was groomed to handle both. You, on the other hand, _my dear Weasel_ , are going to wither and die a slow, painful death under a crushing heel of your mundane, goody-two-shoes M… future wife.”

Good catch there. It wouldn’t do me any good to start using immature Hogwarts-era insults. Especially because Hermione Granger is a powerful, influential witch these days, whose capable hand has a far reach.

But because this is Ronald-fucking-Weasley, nothing short of a human volcano in explosive temper and predictability, even my half-hearted attempt to keep things polite doesn’t go as planned. Before I could blink, he grabs me –  by the neck, the brute! –  and transports me away from the crowded reception room into an abandoned corridor behind it.  Fuck me if I know how, because he had no time to draw his wand, and if circumstances were different, I’d be half-impressed. But as things are, the only thing I’ve got to be impressed with are his freakish height, and the feel of a warm, giant fist loosely wrapped around my neck.

“Why the fuck do you have to always be so mean?” he hisses angrily, and his eyes are nothing but a pair of blue flames. “You know as well as I do how brilliant Hermione is! She was there when we saved your life, several times, and believe me, if Harry didn’t fly you out of that infernal room when it was ablaze, she would have done it. Aren’t you, posh lot, at least taught how to be grateful?!”

“I _am_ grateful!” I shoot at him, and I realise that the anger I thought I had under control expanded exponentially in my chest. “That’s why I didn’t point out that she’s an annoying know-it-all who thinks herself better than you!”

“She _is_ better than I am, you daft fuck!” he growls at me, looking incredulous. “Everyone knows that! She could do _so_ much better than I. My own mother knows that!”

“And you’re just… _fine_ with it?!” I can’t help but bark in frustration. He is _truly_ infuriating.

“It’s the goddamn truth, Malfoy!” he spits through the gritted teeth, as if he has to try very hard not to take out his frustration on me. “Not everyone is deluded enough to think they’re the fucking king of the world – like a certain _conceited git_  who comes to mind!”

“We’re not talking about Potter now,” I blurt out, and because I know –  look, I just _know_  –  that these words are inevitably going to be followed by a punch, I quickly blurt out the first nonsense I can think of:

“And you’re right –  not everyone is entitled to think so highly of themselves –  but their wife should.”

The punch that was coming stops mid-way.

“Wha–?” he breathes, looking confused and just sort of... adorably flabbergasted.

Perhaps the air is thinner up in the skies where his head is because he clearly needs some more time than an average wizard to process things, especially things that have to do with complex emotions... and the truth. But I’m more than happy to elaborate: “Your wife –  or your future wife or whatever the hell these days Granger is to you, since you’re clearly not so eager to tie the knot as Potter was – my point is: your _significant other_ should think the world of you. And that is true of you more than of every other man I know, Weasley.”

He doesn’t say a word. His fist is still raised, and his breathing is heavy and erratic, and those pretty – well, obviously not pretty, no, but perhaps -  _interesting_ blue eyes are big, and round like a child’s, and brilliant… oh, bloody hell, perhaps they’re a little bit pretty after all. So much for keeping a straight head around Ronald Weasley; my mind just went off the rails like a drunken Hogwarts Express.

“Why would you say something like that?” he says, and I barely recognise his voice when it’s not loud and angry.

“Because the person you give your heart to should only see the best in you. They should see your weaknesses as your strengths and your quirks as a reflection of your wonderful, unique character; they should forgive you for your trespasses before you even make them… They should make you think _more_ , not less of yourself. They should think the world of you. That’s who you want to marry. Why settle for less?”

For a moment there, those hypnotising blue eyes are filled with some heartbreaking realisation, but then he finally lets his fist drop, and he laughs. But it’s not that heartwarming chuckle I hate, the one that makes Potter smile –  this one is too loud, bitter, and kind of ugly. On purpose.

“Right. Like you know me so well… But just for the sake of an argument, _O Wise One_ : where am I going to find such a person?” he says, and finally the warm grip on my neck is gone. I realise I feel strangely naked without it.

And because I don’t say anything at first –  still busy catching my breath, you see –  his smile turns even more bitter, and just a tad more desperate.

“I thought so,” he says roughly. “You’re out of ideas. So, unless you’re going to be the one…”

He raises his eyebrow as if mocking me, but his arms are crossed at his chest, and he’s practically hugging himself, as if he was mortally wounded and he’s barely keeping himself together.

And I do the only thing I can think of doing under the circumstances: I Disapparate. Fuck not having a wand. You see… I came too damn close to blurting out how he gets to me, every time. His fire. His brutal honesty. That quiet, unspoken, desperate yearning in his blue eyes to be the one for someone. He has me at half-mast just staring at me. Just like he used to. _Bloody_ Weasel.

Much later, after a furious emergency wank, and a bout of unexpected, angry tears ambushing me while I was treating my splinched eyebrow, I realise that I never completed my mission for that evening: I never found a suitable candidate for a wife. I never made it past Weasel.

I guess I’ll have to find another opportunity. Get dressed, get out of the house, wandless, take the glowering looks, the whisper and the scorn, endure another boring party. Because of him.

Fucking Weasel.


	2. Bloody expensive jumper

“Can’t stay away from me, can you?”

I confess I jump a little. It’s a bloody charity event this time, what is he even doing here?! I honestly didn’t expect to see him again! It took me two weeks –  filled with Father’s angry, vexing nagging  –  to pull myself together enough to make another attempt at socialising, and hopefully, spotting a suitable candidate for a future Madam Malfoy, who wouldn’t be interested in spitting in my face. But instead, it’s him again. _Goddamn Weasel._ There must be some sort of evil deity out there having a laugh by repeatedly throwing this tosser at me.

I can’t let him pull another one of his tricks on me once again – after all, I’m a man on the mission – therefore I decide to turn the tables on him and make him do some explaining.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Weasel. Unless you were obliviated, you know very well why I’m here,” I drawl as haughtily as I can muster. “But the million-Galleon question is, what are _you_ doing here? This is a charity event, for goodness’ sake –  I reckon that’s _not_ your gig. If anything, you could be on the receiving end of it!”

I can’t help myself, all right? I know it’s cheap and demeaning, and I’m not that person anymore –  only around him, I am. Ronald Weasley always brings out the very worst in me.

Of course, I expect his immediate impulsive attempt to nail me into the wall again. But this time, he merely laughs in my face. Again. And I mean _laughs_. Not that ugly thing from last time; not the jolly _“Potter is around”_ chuckle either. No, this one is pure mirth. I _entertain_ him. I’d rather entertain the rest of the packed place by strangling him, to be honest, but I once again tell myself that I’m a better man –  and a wandless one at that –  so instead, I only raise my eyebrow like a true Malfoy.

“Too many of these?” I point at the half-empty glass in his hands, but he merely looks at it, puts it on top of the nearest art object on display –  so much for class and appreciation of… oh, god, truly hideous art –  and says quickly:

“Merlin, no. It’s vile. Don’t take one, it tastes like someone melted a chocolate frog in a Bubotuber pus  –  too sweet and… just gross. I knew I shouldn’t have let Hermione pick the drinks.”

It takes me a few precious moments before his words sink in. Why would Granger pick the drinks? Unless this is….

“You haven’t been too careful about reading the invitation, eh?” he says mildly, and his voice still sounds like he’s having tons of fun. “It says _‘Sponsored by Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger’_ right on top. This is my party, Malfoy. Welcome.”

I take the drink anyway. I need something to do with my hands and I can’t feel any sicker than I already do. How could I have missed that?! Of course, I picked it _because_ it was a charity event, something to do with the orphans of war –  and it’s always good for a pardoned criminal to show his face at one of those –  but also because it was the only invitation that Mother received. In ages. I didn’t even see the damn card myself. Granger must have sent it in her _‘Let’s give a chance for society to heal’_ latest effort or whatever rot she was at again. Yup, I _still_ hate that bitch.

“Why would you throw a charity party?” I mumble to at least try to stir this bloody murder of a conversation in another direction. Of course, I barely make myself to swallow an acid _“You ran out of the things to eat at your house?”_  because it just wouldn’t do to insult the host and get tossed out into the cold evening.

“It’s my birthday,” he says curtly, but something about the way he casts his eyes down and looks away quickly, triggers my senses. You see, I’d been schooling myself to smell out weaknesses on my Weasel… oh, god, no, _what_?! On _Weasel_ , just _Weasel_ , you stupid brain, not _MY_ Weasel  –  seriously, what the fuck?! Anyway, I’d been training to smell out _Weasel’s_ weaknesses for half a dozen years at Hogwarts; I’m a champ, you can’t beat me at that. I know one when I see one. This isn’t right; something stinks. His face has that blank, empty smile that might as well be mine, and I can _smell_ misery on him. But I can’t just give myself away like that.

“Well, in that case: happy birthday!” I say as courteously as I can manage, and just for the sake of appearances, I even force a stiff smile. But he only nods absentmindedly as if he couldn't care less for my fake attempt at politeness, and his restless eyes remind me of a captured bird, dreaming of flying away. _Of course_ , it strikes me out of the blue: no way this was his idea! This whole charity thing just breathes Granger’s name –  and I bet she’s gladly using this for self-promotion! But all I know of Weasel tells me that he’d much rather be hidden in a jolly pub somewhere, getting sloshed with Potter. Aaaand all I know of Weasel _also_ tells me that he’d never say no to a charity event, not when it had _‘orphans of war’_ in its title.

“Why did you agree to this?” flies out of me before I can think better of it.

His eyes, once again startled as if Ronald Weasley could not believe I could guess what was on his mind, are immediately on me. They’re more aquamarine today –  I reckon because his fancy robes are emerald –   and I’m standing close enough to see my pale face reflected in them. His eyelashes are long and darker than his vibrant hair, but the auburn colour still makes his eyes shine brightly. Oh, please don’t ask me why I’m suddenly busy analysing Weasley’s eyes, I have no explanation other than the fact that it takes him quite a long time to reply, and that the truly disgusting drink might have actually fried my brain.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” he finally states with a shrug, catching me off guard, because he doesn’t even attempt a lie.

“Yes… I know.” I sigh in annoyance and try to reason with the ginger dolt again. “But there are other days to do the right thing. Why your birthday? Shouldn’t you be doing something that you _like_ to do –  other than something that, uhm, _other people_ think you should?”

Again, that jolt of anger runs across his freckled face that immediately sends a corresponding reaction straight to the tips of my nerves.

“What’s it to you?!” he growls, and his strong eyebrows furrow in a way that it makes his eyes look positively stormy. “Stop insinuating that I’m doing something against my will, Malfoy, and for fuck’s sake, _stop pushing my buttons_! I’d hate to smack you across the gob and make Skeeter’s day! You should consider donating instead!”

“I _did_ donate, you ginger twit!” I hiss because it just irks me how stubbornly he’s clinging to this notion of doing the right, selfless thing. “And not only did I donate in gold, Mother also put some of the family heirlooms up there to be auctioned off for this charity of yours! _And_ I am here to bid for whatever other rot you managed to collect!”

“And to find a bride,” he proposes so suddenly, I hiss _“Yes!”_ angrily, only to see him flash a sudden, genuine smile for trapping me at my own game. But he’s already thrown me off the rails. I’m agitated and hot and bothered and I can’t think of finding some _fucking unimportant bride_ , all right?! Not when I need to argue some sense into this impossible Weasel dumb arse!

“Astoria Greengrass,” he says suddenly.

 _What?!_ What is this ginger pancake even on about?

“Astoria Greengrass,” he repeats calmly. “She fits all your standards for a wife. Pure-blood, reasonably attractive, clever, though perhaps a bit too timid for your liking–”

“I don’t care!” I all but yelp, cutting him short, and a few people look our way curiously. But I honestly couldn’t care less. Is he truly so desperate to avoid this conversation that he’s trying to sell me some unknown woman I’ve barely heard of for a wife  _while_ I’m trying to save him from his self-sacrificing, pig-headed self?!

“Look,” I try again. “You _don’t understand_ …”

“Oh, I understand just fine!” he snaps at me so unexpectedly, I instinctively try to grab my wand, which, of course, isn’t there. “You’re here to lecture me on standing up for what I want in life, while you came here to look for a bride you clearly don’t care about finding, just because daddy told you to, you goddamn hypocrite!”

All right, so I’m gawping. I guess I wasn’t the only one who got that _“studying the opponent”_ down to a T. My befuddled, unhelpful brain belatedly reminds me that Weasley is some kind of a chess prodigy, and I realise that some credit is due: the bastard is smarter than he cares to appear. But right now, that bitter smirk with an edge of desperation is tugging at the corners of his mouth again, and some unreasonably panicked voice in my head is telling me that the game is nearly over.

“Now, if that’s it for today’s edition of _“How about I show up and drive Weasel crazy for ten minutes”,_   I’ve got places to be,” he says acidly. “I’m the host, Malfoy, and the auction begins in ten minutes. I’ve got things to do.”

“Wait…” I breathe, without wanting to, and I hate myself as soon as it comes out.

But he doesn’t. He knows as well as I do that nothing good can come out of it. Only, he can’t leave, not right away, anyway. Whatever that pathetic _“Wait...”_ of mine was about, it slowed him down for a long moment. He stops and throws me one last undecipherable look across the shoulder: “Do yourself a favour: give the Greengrass girl a once-over,” he says quietly as if he wants to somehow go easy on me. “You’re not going to be sorry. She’s got everything you’re looking for.”

No, she doesn’t, but I can’t tell him that. I’m just standing there, angry, helpless, abandoned and frustrated, and my eyes are still following him across the room. I can’t tell him, or anyone else, that I’m not looking for anything. It’s already found me.

But at the sight of Granger approaching him and wrapping her arms around his elbow, flushed and smiling, a red-hot, livid beast that dwells under my polished exterior surges to life with a vengeance. Am I a Malfoy or am I not?! God fucking dammit, _I’m a Malfoy_ , and we’re not quitters! I’m going to get my point across tonight even if I never get to leave the house again after that.

I Disapparate quietly –  I’m getting quite good at this wandless thing –  and I know exactly where I’m going. I don’t have much time. I take the most expensive bottle of Firewhisky I can find –  the special-occasions one, one of only three that Grandfather Abraxas had made the year my father was born –  and I head right back where I came from. I’m certain no one has missed me as I haven’t been talking to anyone other than Weasel, and people generally avoid me like the plague these days.

But as my luck would have it, I reappear directly in front of a small, improvised stage Weasel occupies together with Granger. She’s talking to him animatedly, but his eyes drift away from her face as soon as I appear, and land on me. When he frowns I know he can sense something is off –  perhaps he spotted me gone?  –  but luckily, I’ve had a good sense of shrinking and hiding the bottle beforehand, so I quickly look away and put my most bored, expressionless face on, feigning interest in another alarmingly uninspired piece of art.

“Hello, everyone, and welcome to our “For a world without orphans” charity event! It is so nice to see you come in such large numbers! You all _exceed expectations!_ ” Granger squeaks, clearly revelling in her retarded joke and a politely-long applause. “Do, please, take your seats as we will be beginning shortly to stay on schedule,” she says primly, and makes the chairs appear with a nifty spell against a loud, admiring “Ahhh!” from the crowd.

Show-off bitch. At least the antipathy is clearly mutual, as she finally spots me and appears downright flabbergasted and incredulous upon seeing me. What? _You invited us, remember?_ She might have expected my mother, but don’t I feel like explaining to the self-righteous goody-two-shoes that Mother can’t make it. Taking care of the notorious, violent drunk my father is these days, takes time and effort.

But in the end, I simply try to ignore her. I’m not here for her anyway. I’ve got a point to prove to that explosive human container of passion and frustration she’s trying to train for her lap dog.

I deliberately pick a seat just to the side of the stage. Still in the very first row, which makes the bidding easy, but not too much in the spotlight.

The auction begins with Granger boring everyone to tears with her ten-minute droning about the purpose of this fine event, but when it begins, at least the first item is interesting. It’s Mother’s 17th century china tea set; delicate, exotic, and beautifully ornamented, with an innate magical ability to sense the owner’s preference for tea, and make it perfect to their liking. Good choice, Mother. We’re wizards, but we’re _English_ wizards –  and show me one who doesn’t want a perfect cup of tea.

Granger astutely introduces it _“from a generous anonymous donor”_ not to cause any reduction in bidding, but honestly, any pure-bloods among the visitors can spot a gem when they see one. A proper bidding war ensues, escalating to a battle of viciously barked bids between Parkinson and – wait for it – Neville Longbottom. I know that Parkinson is well-aware of the true value of the tea set my mother only ever kept on the shelf to be admired, but Longbottom is uncommonly stubborn about getting it, and in the end, she fumingly has to let him have it. I suppose the war compensation her family was made to pay made a bigger dent in her funds that she’s willing to admit.

But then Longbottom, Mr. Unassuming, truly has the last word: as soon as he makes the payment to the grumpy goblin, he takes the tea set and promptly delivers it into a stunned Parkinson’s lap.

“You looked like you really wanted to have that,” he says quietly, his cheeks dangerously flushed, because apparently, chopping off the head of one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes really didn’t do much for his public-speaking confidence. “So, I reckoned I’d get it for you. 

The expression on Parkinson’s face is priceless. For a moment, all the bitchiness has melted out of it and she looks absolutely lost for words. But Granger begins to applaud rather hysterically, and before you know it, the whole world is clapping their hands off.

“I… Merlin, Longbottom… Neville. This is a royal present,” Pansy finally manages to find her voice, and it’s strangely muffled, like she’s truly moved. “I suppose since you let me have it… would you care to test our new acquisition after the end of the auction?”

Longbottom is so red he looks about ready to have a coronary, but he smiles shyly and nods so enthusiastically, that he single-handedly turns the place into a madhouse of applauding, cheers and even cat-calls.

In the general armageddon that ensues, I reckon it should be safe to take a peek at Weasel, so I risk it –  only to meet his eyes straight on. He doesn’t say anything, and though he’s clapping like the rest, he isn’t even smiling. He’s only looking at me as if my face is the last refuge in this place, where he so clearly doesn’t want to be. For some reason, I can feel the heat of his quiet, persistent stare burn the colour into my cheeks. In all this crowd, he’s found a way to make me feel as if it was just us. He knows I hate being here. He hates being here as well. It’s hopeless, and I can’t snatch him out of the crowd now. But the way he’s looking at me only cements my determination to rebel against this fucking evening in some way, and have him join me in my transgression. I can’t do it now. But Slytherins know how to be patient, and I haven’t quite shed my serpent skin.

When the worst of the chaos is over, the auction resumes, but it’s just meaningless knick-knacks now: art no one wants but they’re too polite to admit, someone’s entire cutlery collection that gets to be called _ancient_ just because someone’s lazy house-elf didn’t clean it to a shine, and finally some jewellery that makes the ladies gasp and accounts for some fierce bidding. But I find it all boring and it just goes over my head. I know I should bid for something to at least keep up appearances and justify sitting in the first row, but nothing captures my interest and my mind keeps running like an unleashed wild Crup to a window of opportunity I need and we deserve. I couldn’t care less about the auction, until…

“This last item perhaps doesn’t belong on today’s list of highly-esteemed collectibles, but it’s from our personal collection and it’s been very dear to both our hearts for years, so perhaps it might generate some interest,” Granger speaks in her excited-girl voice. She looks at Weasley, smiling suggestively, but after he gives her one of his perfunctory empty smiles that never reach his eyes, she’s prompted to continue: “Because, you see  –  this item comes with a story. When Ronald and I were still at Hogwarts, he once had a very important Quidditch match to play...”

Oh, Merlin’s iron balls… I feel all the colour disappear from my cheeks and then return with a vengeance. I know exactly where this is going. That Gryffindor bitch.

“He wasn’t supposed to win that one,” Granger chatters on, “and the opposing team wrote him a mocking chant called _Weasley Is Our King_ –  which turned out to be quite _conveniently_ titled indeed.”

I swear, at this point her eyes glance towards me with glee. Let no one tell you Hermione Granger is not petty and vindictive. She could have sold whatever item she’d put up for sale from their personal collection, and she had to know that anything owned by the Golden Trio would generate a handsome sum of gold. But no, she had to tell a story with it. That bit was for me. I had no doubt about that. I’m going to get back at her if it’s the last thing I do.

“To be fair, the tune was quite catchy – up to a point when Ron’s friends ended up humming it without realising what they were doing – but it was also a mean, perfectly-designed attempt to shake Ron up into embarrassing himself at the match. However – ” she pauses deliberately for theatrical effect, “Ron _won_ that match for Gryffindor!”

And then she has to stop talking again because there’s no way anyone could hear her over all the excited squeals. Finally, with people eager to hear the rest shushing each other, she’s able to continue, and she does so with vigour: “Ron won that match with flying colours! He took that chant as a challenge, as encouragement, and turned it around on them, so they ended up regretting ever writing it! And after some shenanigans and a period of slight... misunderstanding, so common for those confusing teenage years...” she shifts uncomfortably and smiles stiffly, undoubtedly trying to gloss over the memory of Weasley slobbering all over that what-was-her-name blonde slut that ended up hating him, “... Ron decided to gift me the Gryffindor jumper he was wearing as part of the Quidditch uniform that day. As it was a part of the uniform, it has ”Keeper” embroidered at the back, but since Ron is a big man and I’m a rather smaller size myself, I’d never found a good opportunity to put it on. And this is the item we’re putting on auction today!”

A familiar garment appears in her hands, once again generating so much excited chatter she has to stop talking, but I couldn’t care less if someone hexed her numb from this point on. I’ve gone all stiff and my eyes are glued onto the soft, scarlet-gold jumper, indeed so well-preserved as if no one had touched it in five or so years –  Merlin, has it really only been that long?! It feels like another life entirely!

She keeps on droning – _“As you can see, it is in a wonderful shape. The colours are still vibrant, and you could have something embroidered at the front if you wished. It would make a lovely present for a special person in your life...”_  –  but I’m no longer paying her any attention. The cogs in my head are turning a mile a second, and I’ve gone strangely breathless.

Was the woman mad, or what? Couldn’t she see what she was doing to him?! Publicly, even? He gave her the one thing that made him proud, a memory of the day when he got to feel like the king for once in his life –  and she told everyone she never wore it, and she was giving it away for some fucking unimportant charity, one in a million. Who does that?! What kind of a person _takes_ that?

My eyes dart towards him, meeting his blue orbs yet again, and from the way he stubbornly presses his lips together and looks away quickly, with nothing but poorly concealed misery in his eyes, I know he can tell what I’m thinking. She didn’t consult him. There’s no “we” in there. She simply thought it would be a good idea, and she went through with it. His future wife. And this thought just kind of makes me sick.

A rare, unprecedented rage that I know no origin of erupts from the pit of my stomach, and it’s a good thing I don’t have my wand on me. I would have fried the Mudblood. She deserves to be hurt. But I once again remind myself that I’m a true Slytherin, and I promptly decide I don’t need my wand. There are other ways to do that.

An exotic-looking girl of about sixteen, seventeen years of age, cute enough, is sitting next to me, talking animatedly to her mother, a tall, imposing witch of Oriental origin, who clearly seems reluctant to agree to one of her ideas.

“Please, Mum! I’ll do anything! I’ll practice charms every day. I’ll take over the housekeeping during the holidays, just like you want me to! I’m going to work really hard for my N.E.W.T.s. Just… bid, Mum… please. I want it to be my graduation present!”

“But you haven’t even got a special person in your life!” her mother huffs in annoyance, but I can tell from the resigned tone of his voice that’s she’s not far from giving into her daughter’s pleading. I know this game. I’ve played this game. Only child here, hello? A very _spoiled_ only child… I know where this is going.

“But it’s from Ron Weasley!!!” the girl squeals so loudly, that even Weasel looks in her direction, and almost makes her swoon with a small smile; the first genuine one I’ve seen him flash all evening.

“Oh my God, Mum! He _smiled_ at me! Ron Weasley smiled at me! You know he’s my favourite, Mum! And the jumper looks sooo comfortable! I could wear it…” – she flushes deeply and thinks better of her words – “... all the time at home,” she finally blurts out. Yup, checkmate. I can see by her mother’s indulgent smile she’s seconds from granting her daughter her extravagant wish. Granger apparently catches the interaction as she turns slightly in our direction and points out like a good saleswoman: “It comes with a certificate of authenticity, signed by Ronald and myself, while…”

“And a kiss!” the girl by my side squeals unexpectedly, her audacity nearly making her mother fall off the chair, and –  much to my delight –  making Granger’s jaw hit the ground.

“Yasmine!” the girl’s mother gasps, but her daughter doesn’t even seem to hear her. Her eyes are literally glued onto Weasley, sitting up there on the stage like a king in his throne, and she looks every bit like the rest of the world doesn’t even exist. Granger shifts uncomfortably in her chair, unsure what to do in the face of such blatant worship of the man she considers her own, but at that moment, Weasley smiles –  and the world is instantly a different place. Perhaps I was the only one to spot a flash of defiance in those bright blue eyes before he unleashed that killer smile onto the unsuspecting girl, but the whole room seems to light up with it and I don’t think anyone honestly cares about his motivation. They all recognise that rare, radiant smile for the treasure it is.

“Sure,” he says quietly in that deep, rumbling voice he had developed. “Why not? A kiss for the highest bidder it is.”

A right shudder goes through the girl at my side, and she gasps quietly, her eyes nearly glossing over. She’s completely smitten with him, I can tell. But he keeps looking in our direction, and though there’s a trace of that champion smile still lingering on his lips, I can see the darkness hiding beneath it. I just witnessed a rebellion. And unknowingly, Weasel had given me my window of opportunity. I know exactly what to do.

The bidding begins low, at only fifty Galleons. Look, I know that might _sound_ like a lot for a mere standard issue Hogwarts jumper, but everyone here has money they’re more than willing to show off and spend, so this is low. In fact, in my fuming mind it’s just another sign how little Granger thinks of such a highly-personal present that should have been labelled priceless and never sold if she had any respect, love and consideration for her lo… for Weasel in the first place.

Well, if the-nerd-in-charge was in any way deluded that the jumper wouldn’t generate proper interest, the auction definitely puts her in her rightful place: the bid is at 250 Galleons before I even get to open my mouth. The jumper is a subject of the fierce competition between four young ladies, and I decide to let them play it out to the very end.

Five hundred. Good, it’ll only make my job easier. Only three bidders remain at this point; one of the girls had given it up, sobbing into her hands quietly.

Nine hundred. Another girl hesitates a tad longer before rising the bid. Naturally. I doubt the entire Gryffindor team’s jumpers cost that much. Where do young people get that kind of money anyway?! She barely looks more than hired help around here!

A thousand two hundred. Oh, another drop-out. Nicely done, Yasmine… or her mother; she seems to be the one with the money and a propensity to spoil her child rotten.

Just two girls left at this point. Yasmine’s opponent is very pretty… very pretty indeed. Natural blond, curvy in all the right places, with a generous cleavage not-so-subtly hinting at her considerable assets. Weasley’s type to a T; he was always keen on blondes with big… appendages. I can tell she makes Yasmine nervous. She’s pretty enough to be part-Veela. Those blue eyes are alight with determination that this one victory will be hers. Think again, love. I haven’t said the last word yet. In fact, I haven’t said anything yet.

“Yasmine… this really is an awful lot of money,” the girl’s mother whispers in despair, when Granger, strangely pale in the face, announces the current bid to be _“...at 2000 galleons, ladies and gentlemen, isn’t that incredible?!”_. Two thousand, bitch. That’s how much that jumper you just gave away without ever putting it on is worth to some. And it’s perhaps just a little bit… well, not heartbreaking, but… you know… disconcerting how incredulous Weasel looks when the blond girl signals she’s willing to raise her bid to 2200 Galleons.

“Mum, _please…_ She’ll quit, I _know_ she’ll quit! Just a little bit more. And you can… oh, blast, I suppose you can teach me all about business, just the way you keep pushing…”

“Oh… in that case…” Yasmine’s mother straightens her back, looking even more poised, and calls out with calm authority: “Three thousand Galleons.”

The place goes calm for a moment, and then explodes in excited chatter. The blond girl looks crushed. She’s quickly and nervously consulting an older man by her side, but he keeps shaking his head adamantly, and in the end, she has to give in. Looking desperate and sulky, she’s no longer bidding.

“Three thousand Galleons, ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards! That’s the latest bid,” Granger says stiffly, and her voice lacks the enthusiasm she had closing down other bids. I suppose the old jealousy is crawling up her bones. Why does she only remember how much Weasley is worth when she comes near losing him? Suits the cold bitch right. “Three thousand going once, going twice and…”

“Ten,” I raise my hand, and the hall goes so quiet one could hear a wand drop.

“Excuse me…” Granger finally speaks in a shaky voice. “If you’d meant three thousand and ten Galleons, you have to…”

“Oh, no… I apologise for not making myself clear enough. I’d meant _ten thousand Galleons_ ,” I say as politely as I can, and even muster a smile. It’s worth ten times that much. Granger looks absolutely horrified. And Weasel… Ron Weasley’s eyes are the biggest, bluest things in the universe. He looks… entranced.

“But you can’t…” Granger blurts out, but I’m not about to let her ruin my moment.

“I’ve been to a gazillion of these things, Granger,” I drawl as coolly as I can. “Of course, I can. I thought you’d be happy. This is _your_ charity event, and I’m willing to be generous. This jumper you so kindly put up for auction is a personal item belonging to the man whom the history books refer to as ‘one of the three surviving greatest heroes of our times’. And this particular item even comes with a story –  a story I was a part of. Those types of items are priceless as it is  –  imagine selling a hat belonging to Merlin or some such!  –  and this _very_ one is priceless to me. I would have paid ten times as much.”

She literally swallows. God, this is the best day ever!

“Yes… well… I suppose... Right… Ten thousand Galleons, ladies and gentlemen, going once, going twice…” she looks around desperately, as if hoping against hope someone would be brave, or rich, or mad enough to stop this calamity, but Potter –  possibly the only man rich and mad enough – is home with his pregnant wife, and she’s got no one to save her.

“... and sold… to Mr. Draco Malfoy. Ten thousand Galleons, ladies and gentlemen. That’s…” the words barely make it through her clenched teeth, “... extraordinary.”

As if on a mark, the place absolutely explodes into a cacophony of mad noises. But I pay no attention to those because Weasley just got up and he is approaching us with the jumper in his hands, still looking as if he wasn’t completely grounded. But one voice by my side does make it through.

“How could you?!” a woman’s voice snaps at me, and suddenly, I’m looking into enraged eyes of the distinguished woman by my side. Her daughter had melted all over her lap, nearly literally, sobbing like there’s no tomorrow. Weasley is a few steps from us, frowning –  and she’s a moment from calling me a Death Eater. And I can’t have that. I can’t have him snap out of it. Fuck. What do I do? There’s just one thing, really...

“Your daughter can have one,” I speak quietly, and look into the dark, unforgiving eyes of a mother whose child had been made miserable. “The jumper or the kiss. Pick one, and it’s hers.”

She looks shell-shocked. And he heard me, just like I hoped he would. And it stops him dead in his track.

“Wha–” The girl, Yasmine, unglues herself from her mother’s lap, and she’s looking at me with wild, frantic, hopeful eyes. Merlin, she’s a mess. Whatever make-up she was wearing it’s all running down her cheeks and if she was reasonably attractive before, she’s got nothing but those big, dark, hopeful eyes on her side now. The rest is… oh, dear god. It’s even on her clothes.

“The jumper or the kiss,” I repeat coolly. “I can’t let you have both, or I would have paid for nothing, and that’s not something I’m prepared to do. Choose wisely.”

Her eyes dart towards the tall figure of Ron Weasley standing three feet from us, and I can just _guess_ what she wants to choose. My old prejudice aside, he is rather… well, perhaps not dashing, but… all right, so he’s bloody handsome in those well-fitting robes and with those damn… aquamarine blue eyes shining like precious gems from a pale freckled face. Ugh! Why did he have to grow up to be attractive on top of everything else?!

“I… I… I’ll have…”

“The jumper,” Yasmine’s mother speaks quickly, and when her daughter turns her face towards her with neck-snapping speed, with a defiant _“No…!”_ on her lips, her mother says quietly, but adamantly: “It’ll last you longer, Yasmine. Let go.”

She reminds me of my mother; she’s absolutely unyielding, and Yasmine clearly knows that she’s hit the unbreakable barrier. She gives in with a nod. Then she closes her eyes for a second and takes a big, deep breath to get a grip on herself.

“Right,” she whispers. “Right. I got it.”

She then turns towards her hero to accept the most expensive present I’d ever got anyone, my parents included.

Weasley finally bridges the last few steps between us and stops in front of the girl.

“I believe this is yours,” he says with a kind smile, masking whatever is underneath, and looks at her brightly. “Congratulations!”

And she just squeals, and hugs him before anyone could stop her, pressing her face – melted make-up and all – into his pristine robes.

“Yasmine! Oh, Merlin, daughter…”

“You know what: that’s perfectly all right,” Ron Weasley says, chuckling softly while pushing the jumper he’d somehow managed to save into the hands of Yasmine’s mother. “I believe I was overdue for a hug anyway. It’s the first one today.”

And casually, his eyes dart towards me, suddenly deep and darker, and though for once I can’t tell what he’s thinking, I can tell he’s not done with me yet. A nervous shiver I know all too well spreads from the pit of my spine into my every nerve, making my skin tingle with charge. Merlin’s balls, why do I always let him do that to me?

“Now, Yasmine, let go,” her mother says firmly, her voice ringing with embarrassment. “I apologise for my daughter, Mr. Weasley. She’s just so very… enthusiastic about you. Yasmine, _now,_  or I swear, I’m giving the jumper back to Mr. Malfoy, who is its rightful owner... and whom we haven’t even thanked properly.”

And that finally makes the girl let go of her champion.

“Sorry,” she whispers, still clearly completely beside herself. “I just…”

“Wear it well,” Weasley says with one of his heartstopping lopsided grins. But in spite of the smile on his face, I get an instant proof he cares nothing for the girl and her affection: his hand instantly snaps around my wrist, and his eyes find mine. “And now, you’ll have to excuse us. Malfoy, you’re with me.”

I don’t even get to draw a gulp of air. Possibly using the same nifty trick, he used last time, he instantly transports us from the overcrowded room onto an abandoned stretch of hallway that has no people pouring out of the doors; not even an echo of distant chatter.

He doesn’t let go of me instantly. Instead, his warm, strong fingers keep a tight hold around my wrist, but they’re not rough, as if he couldn’t quite decide if I was his prisoner or some sort of a delicate treasure he doesn’t want to lose. And of course, the treacherous feeling of familiar warmth crawls up my body like a drug I can’t resist.

“Why did you do that for?” he wants to know, but there’s none of the usual suspicions in those bright eyes, just an echo of genuine surprise and curiosity. “First you bid this absolutely… _mad_ sum, and then you get yourself robbed blind in the daylight. That’s not you, Malfoy. What’s the story?"

Without saying a word, I reach into my pocket. He knows I’m not allowed a wand, and it hurts a little to see him flinch at the gesture, but I suppose I’ll have to forgive him. The man’s been working as an Auror for the last year or two; all his instincts must be screaming. I bring out the shrunken bottle and the two crystal glasses on the palm of my hand, and tell him: “Enlarge it. You’re the one with a wand.”

He’s staring at the palm of my hand for a long second, as if trying to guess what the tiny objects on it are supposed to be; as if he’s trying to ask himself if he’s really mad enough to trust me. I suppose holding the wrist of my right hand must seem like security measure enough, so he finally points his wand at my hand, and I can’t help but shudder when the tip touches it lightly.

“ _Engorgio!_ ” he says firmly, and when the bottle and the glasses appear, they prove too large for my hand, so he catches the precious load with a rather impressive suspension spell.

“What is this?” he says quietly, looking perplexed, but I can see his eyes glitter hungrily at the sight of the label. “What is this supposed to be?”

“ _This,_ Weasley,” I tell him, while grabbing the bottle hanging mid-air and opening it with my teeth, “is how you celebrate one’s twentieth birthday good and proper.”

He’s still holding my wrist as I pour the drinks into two levitating crystal glasses, and he’s looking more incredulous and strangely smitten by the second. It’s like he can’t take his eyes from the amber liquid calling his name, and the way his lips part, I can tell that he’s been dying for a drink this whole fucking nightmarish evening.

“Happy birthday,” I tell him quietly, and push one of the delicate glasses into his giant hand. I quickly take the other, hoping against hope I can conceal how madly my heart beats in my chest. For a second there, I’m not sure if he’s not about to splash the liquid straight at my face, call me names, and walk away… but then he looks at me, and tilts his glass. He takes the entire drink down in a single gulp, as if he’s about to save his soul. When his eyes finally close in pure delight, I get to admire a line of auburn, silken eyelashes throwing a shade across the pale, freckled cheeks. He is… I gulp… He’s quite a sight.

“Oh, God, yes!” he murmurs quietly, and it comes out almost as a moan, making the tiny hairs bristle across my skin. He smiles slowly, dreamily, his eyes still closed, as if he’s finally enjoying himself, and says in a hungry, subdued voice: “Pour me another one.”

I do so, gladly, and I don’t hesitate to fill my own glass as well. I’m going to need all the courage I can get to do what I’m about to do.

Merlin, the second one burns. I barely felt the first one, and I took my time devouring it, but this one… this one I pour down my throat like I’ve got this one chance to be brave and there won’t be any coming back from where I’m going. Liquid fire in my veins is exactly what I need.

My head is all kinds of dizzy when I cup his face in my hands and let my lips find his. I expect a shove. I expect panic, shouting, I expect to be pushed back. I’ve even got an excuse ready about collecting my prize. But I don’t expect the gentle tilt of his head to accommodate me, I don’t expect that soft, generous mouth opening like I’m welcome, and I certainly don’t expect to have my desperate kiss returned with knees-melting passion… like it matters.

He’s not holding back… God, no… not holding back at all. It’s instantly 'all access' for me, and when I go for the kill and slip my tongue into his willing mouth, I’m met by a burning taste of the Firewhisky, and a soft, wonderfully slick tongue ready to play, like it couldn’t wait. It’s sloppy, it’s dirty and urgent. The hot, golden proximity of his body makes all my bones melt. Within moments, I’m clinging onto him; quite certain I’m no longer able to stand. And then the big palm of his hand moves to the small of my back, pressing me closer, long fingers teasing down the curve of my arse, and I moan like an animal in heat.

“Came to collect your debt, did you?” he breathes into my mouth. That deep voice of his instantly sends vibrations to the very pit of my balls, making desire and a vicious need for release swirl inside them like hungry serpents, ready to strike.

“Yes!” I lie, and will him to stop asking questions, to stop digging, because I can’t, for the love of God, tell him the truth. I’d lose myself if I even tried. I can’t tell him that I’ve been waking up at night to a most depraved fantasy of kissing him since I was fifteen. I can’t tell him how stubbornly I tried lying to myself that it wasn’t him haunting and seducing me in my dreams. I can’t whisper in his ear how I hated myself when I woke up flushed and bothered night after night, my hand wrapped around my cock, stroking furiously until I cried out his name, feeling helpless, defeated, with that fucking glorious ecstasy still spreading through me like Fiendfyre.

I’d tried thinking of other people. Merlin knows I’d tried. I’d willed myself to fall for better, more suitable candidates, but when it was just me, the lonely darkness and my hot, trembling hand, the harsh truth came out with a vengeance: no one else worked for me, not in the least. So, in the end I accepted it. I was wired this way, I couldn’t help myself. But I vowed to never call it by any other name but lust. Unwanted, infuriating, yet undeniable lust. And he never gave me a reason to think this was anything else. Until now.

It was easy to call it lust when it was just me, lying in my bed, fantasising of lustrous red hair and sparkling blue eyes and that beautiful mouth wrapped around my cock. Those were mere fantasies of a randy teenager. But this is a whole new level. Being able to sink my fingers into the silken fiery locks and feel their warmth wash over my fingers... seeing the fan of those long eyelashes close above the blue pools just an inch from me... hungrily inhaling the musky, masculine scent of his hot skin like I could hope to store the memory of it in my lungs… tasting the bittersweet softness of that heady mouth my every dream is made of, simply melting my knees like a jelly. Merlin, yes, that _is_ a whole new level.

He is no longer made of fantasy; he’s here, responding to my touch, playing with me, losing himself in me the way I could not imagine in my wildest dream, almost as if he’s indulging a forbidden fantasy of his own. Oh, yes, this is well beyond lust. I have no name for it. It is a vicious, angry rebellion, a quiet betrayal, a desperate surrender and a greedy act of possession all in one; a brutal assault on everything we believed we were. I could only think of one name befitting this madness, but even in my befuddled, drunken state, I dare not think of it.

And then he tilts my head back roughly, plundering my mouth so very ruthlessly that the sheer forcefulness of him makes my balls draw tighter because I could never have imagined such sweet savagery… and I breathe out his name like I could not have stopped it from happening: “Ron…”

And that does it. That’s all it takes. His blue eyes open in shock, and the charm holding the evil, cursed bottle I had brought along as a bait, in place, abruptly fails. The bottle and both glasses crash to the ground spectacularly, shattering the crystal and the fragile illusion we’d built around us beyond repair. He pulls away from me, yet those hungry, sensual lips remain half an inch from me, our hot breath mixing into a maelstrom of confusing, inexplicable emotions. I want to kiss him again so badly my lips hurt.

But then somewhere in the building underneath us, the door opens, and the jolly sounds of the auction wash into the corridor.

“Funny, there’s no one. I could swear I’d heard a loud bang…” Granger’s voice  –  of all!  –  echoes through the empty space towards us. His finger is on my lips before I could move a muscle, gentle, yet forbidding.

“You need to go,” he whispers into the closeness between us. For some reason, this tenderness, the unspoken regret in his hushed voice, instantly makes the terrifying tears of anger and frustration pool in my eyes. I’m not going to cry in front of him… God, please don’t let me cry.

Without much ceremony, his fingers wrap around my wrist again, and he pulls me behind to the fireplace at the end of the corridor that has a small jar of Floo powder on the marble top. He pushes me in, not roughly, yet unrelenting, without looking me in the eye, and I _hate, hate, hate_ the way he doesn’t say goodbye. Merlin, I could murder him right now for shredding me so.

“Thank your _girlfriend_ for the invitation!” I spit out bitterly just as the Floo powder glitters in his hand.

And then he finally looks at me. God, as if I wasn’t broken enough already.

“She didn’t send it. I did,” he says quietly, and the blue of his eyes is the last thing I remember. I don’t even hear him say the name of my residence through the pounding of my heart in my ears.

Try as I might, I get no sleep at night. Tossing and turning, cursing the goddamn ginger plague that made such a mess out of me, and trying so very hard not to cry. In the end, I give in, and I wank. For once the pale fantasies in my head are replaced by the memories so colourful, intense, and sensual, it feels as if I could still feel the taste of him in my mouth. An overwhelming wave of bliss hits me like a hex, making me see white spots behind my eyes. God, I hate him. How could I not?

I drag myself to the breakfast-parlour in the morning just because I know my parents would fuss if I didn’t but I can’t, for the love of God, imagine actually putting something in my mouth. Even the cup of coffee I hastily pour barely feels more like liquid ash. I let it burn my mouth anyway, just for the sake of the appearance.

My mother kisses my cheek when I enter, taking one look at me and frowning immediately, but Father just sits there, barely grunting in reply at the forcedly cheerful “Good morning!” I make myself utter not to raise any alarms.

“So, any luck last night?” he barks, and when I look at him I can see his eyes are red-rimmed, and for once he looks sober. Merlin, have mercy… Of all the mornings, seriously?!

“Luck, as in…?” I try to stall, but by the way his grey eyes darken, I know he’s not in the mood.

“Don’t play with me, boy!” he hisses viciously, making my mother wince almost imperceptibly. “You know very well what I’m talking about! Have you had any luck looking for a suitable bride? The Malfoy name still bears weight, you know! You can’t have been trying very hard!”

“Astoria Greengrass,” I blurt out the first name I can think of and try to recall how Weasley described her. “She looks… promising.”

My father’s face brightens with surprising speed at the mention of a pure-blood surname.

“Well, well, well… I confess myself pleasantly surprised that there’s still some sense in you,” he comments dryly but it’s a far cry from the sulky, bitter attitude from moments earlier. He looks strangely rejuvenated.

“What is the girl like, then? I trust you’ve made no commitments? I want to have her checked out before you do. The Greengrass family are a good, respectable pure-blood family, but the Malfoy bride shan’t have any spots on her name and reputation.”

“She is... reasonably attractive,” Weasley’s words finally, mercifully come to mind. “Clever, perhaps a bit timid. I haven’t made any con…  commitment.”

And then it strikes me what I need. “I need time,” I blurt out. “In spite of how you feel about our family name, Father, I can’t just walk out there, pick a random girl, and have her say yes. It’s not how things worked between you and Mother either. I need some time,” I say as coolly and assertively as I can muster.

Oh, I do need time, yes, but it’s not to court Astoria Greengrass. I would undoubtedly have to get acquainted with the lady in question _eventually_ ; if for no other reason than to provide myself with a better alibi. But there is no point in lying to myself: I need time to figure out where this madness with Weasley is going. I’ve got one chance at this. I could have lived with a lifetime of hopeless dreams, but I can’t live with memories half-made; I can’t go through life without knowing what hid beyond the regret in those blue eyes that still burned in my memory. I _can’t_ just… let go.

With a foreboding tremor that makes the cup in my hands rattle, I realise that last night I had bought into the most dangerous commodity of all time for someone in my precarious position: a humble, yet stubborn grain of hope. It came to life under the light from those blue eyes, springing unexpectedly from my heart of hearts, ignorant of the harsh reality if it ever dared to blossom. I didn’t go looking for it –  our first encounter was a pure coincidence, I’m certain of that – yet the desperate way in which I grabbed my one chance to follow my forbidden dreams told me everything I needed to know about the life leading to safe and predictable future: I wasn’t ready for it.

And, I stubbornly remind myself, _he_ gave me that chance. He’d admitted so himself. _He invited me._ Because that’s what it was. He put his name up on that invitation and sent it to my home, knowing I was the only one fit to attend. If nothing else, I owed it to myself to find out why he would do a thing like that. One time, I promise myself. I’ll just try this one time, and whatever happens, I’ll never look back again. But how the fuck am I going to do such a thing? I had no idea.


	3. Yours to break

Astoria Greengrass is beautiful. I don’t know what Weasel was on about with his _“reasonably attractive”_ opinion –  she’s a beauty by anyone’s standards. And, boy is she clever! Clever, cultivated, and entertaining as well! She has that precious dry wit and a sweet smile that could melt its way into anyone’s heart. Too fucking bad it’s all lost on me, isn’t it? Because as beautiful, clever and genuinely sweet as she is, she’s nothing but an excuse.

You see, for all I tried, I couldn’t find another opportunity to see _him_ again. March was a terribly vexing time of the year, not warm enough for garden parties, too far removed from the sparkling winter charms of the Yule-time season. And I don’t have any business at the Ministry where he works. I don’t _want_ to have any business there. So, after a week of frantic listing through the pages of the Daily Prophet, to see if there was anything I could attach myself to, any charity, a random ball –  a fucking gardening fair if need be!  –  anything that I could attend, I realised that I wasn’t willing to wait any longer.

It was ridiculous, really, how restless and impatient I’ve become. In an almost forgotten reality of just a few weeks ago, I was perfectly fine without seeing Weasel for the year and a half that had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts, but ever since I let the ginger brute put those possessive, warm hands on me, a week seemed to drag like a year. So, I did what Malfoys did best: I cheated.

I knew if my family had thrown a party of any sort, it would go ignored. I could probably make the few pure-blood families attend –  which might just get me an opportunity to finally approach the Greengrass girl –  but that was just my official agenda. Pure-blood as they were, the Weasleys were not likely to come anywhere near us, so I had to take a slight… reroute. I paid Pansy to do it.

Yes, Pansy. Pansy Parkinson, my oldest friend and confidante, for whom that tea she shared with Longbottom proved to be rather fatal: she began to date the clumsy Gryffindor dork in earnest, much to the shock of the entire wizarding community. When I came to ask a favour of her, I found her looking happier and more content than I’d ever seen her before. However, jolly as she was these days, she was no less a bitch-blooded Slytherin. She frowned upon my request, and instantly wanted to know what this was really all about _“before I embarrass myself in front of Neville over one of your infantile, shady intrigues”_.  

Yup, she still knew how to drive a tough bargain! But, like I said: she was my oldest friend and one ruthless bitch on top of that; I knew that if my endeavours had no hope of succeeding she’d tell me straight to my face. So after having sworn her to an oath of secrecy, I decided to take a risk and just… blurt it out.

“I’m… interested in someone from your newly-made circle of Gryffindor friends,” I started carefully. She looked at me pointedly, as if I'd just uttered the biggest folly, and then she snorted at me: “There is no such thing as my _‘newly-made circle of Gryffindor friends’_ , you dolt. They’re Neville’s crowd, and I barely tolerate them. But if it’s _Weasel_ you’re after...” she casually added with snark, barely suppressing an evil giggle when I inhaled half a scone and nearly started choking, “... you’re welcome to tell me all about it –  even if it’s only about _five years too late_ , Mr. Worst-Friend-Ever.”

How?! How did that female crystal ball get it right so quickly?! Has she grown up to be a Seer? Surely I was better at keeping my secrets than that! My god, was I turning into a Hufflepuff, a transparent abomination anyone could read?! The very thought made me sweat!

“How… how did you know?” I choked out when I finally gained some air, simply dead-anxious that I had, perhaps, somehow given myself away randomly. But she just smirked scornfully at me.

“Because you wouldn’t bloody shut up about him, stupid,” she rolled her eyes. “It was always Weasel this, Weasel that, to no end. While the rest of the world was busy with Potter, it was always about Weasel for you, wasn’t it? I’ve never seen you work harder than on that stupid song you wrote for him. _‘Weasley is our king’_ indeed –  do you have _any_ idea how many times you got it wrong, humming _‘Weasley is my king’_ instead?! I had to hex Zabini not to spread any nasty rumours once he’d figured it out. And then there was that calamity of an auction last week: what in the name of Salazar’s favourite basilisk was that?! You’d paid a fortune for that bloody jumper, then you let that melted mess of a girl have it, and you just disappeared –  with Weasel! I don’t think I’ve ever seen Miss Fussy Granger so livid! It was glorious!”

“Don’t remind me,” I groaned, too mortified for words. It was all a giant disaster, and I had no good explanation. The only explanation that _did_ come to mind was a jumbled mess of very un-Slytherin emotions that I couldn’t even shape into words because it barely made any sense to me. Hell, me wanting to see more of Weasel had to be standard definition of utter _nonsense_!

“Just… will you help me?” I mumbled because I really had no backup plan if she denied me. By then it had become very obvious to me that my impossible dream hung by a fragile thread of her agreement. “I’ll pay for it,” I added miserably. “I’ll pay _you_.”

She just looked at me for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether to diagnose me as a nutter or a lunatic, before she rolled her eyes again and blurted out: “Of course I will, you idiot! _For free_ , you fuckwit. I mean, you get to pay for the party and you’re totally going shopping with me for the new spring collection of sandals, but God, don’t _pay_ me! I’d do that and more to see _that_ expression on Sulky Granger’s face once again! Merlin, did you really think for a moment that I wouldn’t? It’ll be fun, right?”

“Right,” I answered in a shaky voice, still barely able to believe that she was on my side once again. Panse could be such a champ, honestly.

“Besides, you’re terrifyingly cute when you’re drooling over Weasel,” she added innocently –  and I swear that female embodiment of supreme evil must have waited for me to start munching on that deadly scone again. The woman just loves to see me choke.

So here I am, two weeks after my last encounter with Weasley, trying to keep up a casual, polite conversation with Astoria Greengrass. No, not because I’m a bloody Slytherin who likes to have more than one ace up his sleeve, but because I need an alibi to please Father. You see, I told my parents I was attending to get further acquainted with Astoria –  so, it wouldn’t exactly do to ignore her, would it?

Other than that, I’m also trying to discreetly strain my neck left and right to see if by any chance he’d already arrived. As you might have guessed, I’m a nervous wreck, and have been, for some time. Pansy swore she had invited them –  yes, _them_ , I had no hope of seeing him without his annoying bushy-haired trailer –  and apparently Neville confirmed delivering the invitation upon being interrogated about it during their, er, most intimate moments. You know, just to ensure maximum honesty. Let no man say Pansy Parkinson was not efficient and devoted to our cause. For the record, I don’t think she fucked Longbottom just with that particular cause in mind, er, no. But if it helped –  who was I to object to her methods?

But right now I was ready to call her a forgetful old cow and Longbottom an incompetent prejudiced fart, because it’s been half an hour, and still no sign of Weasel. Merlin, was that really it? All I was meant to have? A bone-melting kiss without even a proper goodbye and then… nothing? Nothing but a few colourful memories and empty fantasies for as long as I lived? He really didn’t want… whatever the fuck that was... that happened between us? Perhaps it was all only in my head?

God, this sucks. A familiar feeling of restlessness and misery slowly descends upon me like a heavy grey cloak I cannot shake, and I’m struggling to provide any kind of meaningful response to Astoria’s chattering. Luckily, she’s one of those courteous ladies who was brought up to keep up a conversation all by herself in case her conversing partner turned out to be boring –  which I most certainly am. Perhaps she has yet to notice my lack of interest? Right. She might as well be talking to a posh curtain. She’s very likely just being polite.

This whole party I’ve put so much of my hopes and expectations into – together with three nervous breakdowns over my new robes –  suddenly feels like it’s suffocating me. Has it really gone so warm and stuffy here? Perhaps it’s all those hundreds of candles in the magnificent chandeliers? Perhaps it’s just me, drowning in my misery.

“Mr. Malfoy? Are you all right?”

Merlin, poor Astoria. Someone save her from me; she’d be so wasted on the bastard that I am. She’s standing by my side, her white evening dress making her look like an angel, and she seems genuinely concerned about me even though we were barely officially introduced.

“Yes…!” I gasp for her sake, just because I’m such a disgraceful, selfish son of the devil, and she deserves so much better. “Perhaps I just need a bit of air.”

“Here, have this.”

My fingers are suddenly wrapped around a large glass of Firewhisky, but it’s not the promise of a burning drink that instantly clears the air of depression around me. It’s the voice. _His voice._ He came. And... not only did he come, he came to take care of me. His large hand slips onto my shoulder casually, and his other hand wraps around my wrist in familiar fashion, pushing my hand with the drink, towards my lips.

“Drink,” he orders simply, and I do. I’m sipping the fiery liquid slowly, in small sips, trying to make the experience last longer, trying to make sense of things, of the fact that he showed up and sought me out… trying not to shiver under the feeling of warmth spreading from his hand on my shoulder down my body with alarming speed. I’m leaning on his hand slightly, not because I have to, but because I want to, and I’m feeling even hotter than before. But this is a different kind of heat, a familiar one, the one that comes with consequences I won’t be able to hide for long. Merlin, just standing next to him, with his imposing presence behind my back, makes the hairs on my neck stand up. That man just wakes me up. Ron Weasley wakes up my senses and brings me to life with his presence alone, and that’s God’s honest truth.

“Better?” he asks simply, and I can’t lie. I nod, daring for the first time to look at him... and of course, I shouldn’t have. I shouldn't have. He knocks the breath out of me. His hair shines like silken flames against the black robes, and even though he attempted to pull it in a cute ponytail, a few strands are too short to obey and won’t be controlled. They dance freely like fireflies around the pale, freckled face in a beautiful contrast to those astounding blue gems of his eyes, calm, masterful, and focused on me. How could he not knock the breath out of me? He’s like my personal doom. One near-death, barely-breathing Malfoy here.

And if I thought his clothes were fancy last time I saw him that was _nothing_ compared to the set of robes he managed to put on tonight –  or shall I say, _squeeze in_? Because they’re _perfectly_ cut to his rather impressive form as if they were made on him and weren’t meant to be taken off without a threat of ruin. Oh, god, he’s just sex on two gorgeous, endless legs, isn’t he? Couldn’t he at least remain scrawny and skinny?! What the fuck are those wide shoulders all about?! I’m a right sucker for wide male shoulders, I’ll have you know –  how is that fair?! Oh, damn… I can barely keep myself from melting onto the floor. The only thing I can do –  and have to, if any sense of decency and propriety is to be maintained in the presence of a lady  –  is to attempt pulling my jacket lower, as discreetly as I can manage, since a certain delinquent body part developed an avid urge for sudden attention. Just being close to Weasley has turned my cock into a deaf, dumb rebellious bastard. Yeah, what else is new?

Due to such unfortunate circumstances, my every thought is instantly dedicated to a thousand and one scenario on how to get out of here, and how to make the ginger cause of all my troubles tag along. Nothing seems right, though. Small wonder, since there’s probably less mess in Trelawney’s attic than in my head. Perhaps I should let Weasley do the thinking? Perhaps this night will come to nothing if I do.

“Merlin, some colour at last! You gave us quite the scare, Mr. Malfoy,” Astoria says gently. “You’ve turned so very ashen all of the sudden.”

“I’m so very sorry,” I murmur faintly. “I don’t know what came over me, honestly. If it wasn’t for you, alerting Weasley here…”

“Oh, I’ve done nothing, I assure you!” she says honestly and blushes prettily. “I swear Mr. Weasley showed up out of thin air to save the day!”

“We’ve been known to keep an eye on each other lately,” Weasley mumbles quietly, and for a moment there, I honestly forget how to breathe. Fucking... Weasel. But then he smiles cryptically and looks Astoria straight in the eye: “It looks as if I might have to keep saving your evening for a tad longer, Madam. I’ve known Malfoy here for a decade, and this sudden flush in his cheeks is _not_ his usual complexion. Perhaps he’s coming down with something; a fever of sorts? Hermione did. I’m to give her apologies to the host, because she really couldn’t make it. She’s at home, sick as a… very sick. I suppose I’ll have to go and find the hostess… as soon as Malfoy can stand on his own.”

“Oh, please don’t worry about that,” Astoria speaks quickly, with a beautiful gracious smile on her face. “I’ll rush off to find Pansy right now, and I’ll pass her the apologies of your – …?”

“Friend,” he says quietly. “Hermione is my dearest friend.”

Friend?! _Friend?!_ What the fuck… _friend_?!

“Well, yes… I see. I’ll pass Pansy your _dearest friend_ ’s apologies,” Astoria concludes tactfully. “You needn’t worry about that. Just make sure you take good care of Mr. Malfoy. I confess I’ve grown quite fond of him during a short span of our conversation,” she concludes with endearing honesty and a radiant, shy smile, and I’m just standing there, trying not to feel like a complete, utter bastard for not giving a flying fuck about how lovely she is.

“Yeah, perhaps some fresh air will do him good,” Weasley says with the deadly calm of a master chess player who has all the moves under control. “I’m thinking about escorting him to the balcony. If that doesn’t help I’ll make sure he gets home safely… if that’s all right with you.”

He doesn’t say anything out of the ordinary, nothing that could alert anyone’s suspicion, yet his hot breath is teasing my ear, and it’s literally making my knees melt and my nipples harden. God, I’m such a hopeless slut for him.

“By all means,” Astoria says assertively. “You make sure he’s well taken care of. Return to us if you can, otherwise, I will see you both on another occasion. My father still owes my sister an engagement ball, the times back then were… not quite right,” she says quickly, and I remember Daphne getting engaged to Nott at the height of the war.

“Perhaps I will see you then?”

Oh, God, the poor girl directed her question at me, and as much as I long to save her from myself, I’ve got my father to consider and… well, it would just be rude.

“It would be my greatest pleasure,” I assure her, feeling Weasley’s hand on my shoulder squeeze harder, and the heat crawling through my body intensifies tenfold.

She leaves us with a graceful tilt of her head, and Weasley’s thumb slowly caresses the back of my neck, making me barely suppress a needy moan. We both know where this is going. He leads me towards the balcony with nothing but a casual _“Shall we?”_

But as faint as I felt before, I can barely walk for a whole different reason now: my softened knees don’t seem to be up to the job. Oh yeah, and having a swollen cock doesn’t help with walking, who knew? With all that thick, golden heat pooling in my groin, the goddamn balcony feels like it’s miles away. At least I had picked a quiet corner for my chat with Astoria, we barely meet anyone while we move towards our escape route.

The chilly late-winter air hits me in the face, sobering me temporarily, but before my frantic thoughts, squealing in quiet panic – “ _What are you doing, you idiot?! Get away from him! There’s no coming back from this!”_  –  could do more damage, he pushes me against the wall and kisses me breathless. So much for my fucking pointless thoughts. I have about a million of super important issues to discuss with him –  such as “What took you so long?”, “Granger  –  just _a friend_ , really?” and “Who the fuck made you those killer robes and where can I kidnap them?”  –  but I find them instantly evaporating out of my head. Kissing Weasel apparently makes a massive black hole in it, and everything disappears.

Merlin, _this._ This is exactly the thing that draws me to the crazy redhead and makes my brain melt into a goo. This fire, the unchecked intensity, the way he just throws himself in fully, not caring about the consequences, not thinking, and weighing and pondering –  just acting on pure, unabashed instinct that takes my breath away. He overwhelms me, every bloody time. Lust, my arse… This is nothing as simple as lust.

The way he presses me into the wall speaks of crazed, needy hunger that doesn’t allow for much tenderness, and which fits my needs as perfectly as no woman’s gentle touch ever could. I’m the one person he doesn’t have to pretend with, and he’s come as he is: brutish, possessive, in charge like a true king –  and it’s all for me. He’s here to teach me my place, and I’m taking it all with a string of gasped, only half-hushed moans. The way his fingers slip into my hair, fisting it just at the edge of pain, makes my cock press viciously against the constraints of my trousers. Somehow my fiery-haired nemesis must have guessed that in spite of my polished appearance I’m not interested in being treated with delicate care. His tongue is plundering my mouth once again, and I’m breathless, airless, and blissfully happy.

“We can’t stay here,” he finally whispers into my ear, his voice heavy with want, and his breath hot and madly arousing. “I want to fuck. I want to fuck _you_.”

 _YesGodyesplease_ …

My head is honestly so scrambled I can’t think of a single place I’d rather be at, so the only thing that comes to mind is rather alarming. As in, alarmingly _familiar_. But it’ll have to do. We’ll have to be careful –  somehow, Merlin knows how  –  but it’ll have to do.

“Take your wand,” I pant, still getting used to air, and the way he obeys such a dubious and potentially dangerous request without a question tells me everything I need to know about the way he feels about me: he wants me. He wants me badly enough to follow me into the unknown, and that thought alone nearly makes me cream my pants.

I cover his massive fist with one of my hands, and I can’t get enough of the feeling of the solid warm muscle moving under my icy palm. I take one last look into the blue depth of his eyes, clouded with desire, and then close my eyes and visualise our destination, feeling the familiar, unpleasant pull behind my navel taking over almost instantly.

“The fuck?” he mumbles when we land inches from my immaculate childhood four-poster bed but I just put my finger on his mouth and cast a quick _Muffliato_. He immediately cottons on and points an unknown spell at the door.

“Auror-level,” he shrugs and smiles that dark smile he only ever has in store for me. “We don’t want it to open under a common _Alohomora_ , do we?”

The way he’s looking at me, I’m not sure if I ever want it to open again. I’d love to stay here with him; feeling that slow fire crawl under my skin under his perusing eyes, feeling the goosebumps spread all over my body when his big hand slips behind me and closes around the back of my neck. Merlin, he’s got gorgeous hands. Big, calloused, warm, with long fingers that caress the side of my neck with deceptive tenderness as he pulls me closer and his mouth finds mine again. I think I’m ready this time; ready to give as good as I get. The fuck I am…

As sure as hell I try, yes, but he was born to do this; born to take, and to dominate, born to make me yield and do anything to have him quench that desperate, burning lust roaring down my veins. It’s like his vile, beautiful tongue and that filthy, soft, merciless mouth manage to find a perfect crack in reality between that hungry, young Draco who wants, needs and takes, and a shivering, half-naked, yearning, man-Draco who’s found the one and would do anything to share a few hours of unabashed, unspoiled bliss with him. No one kisses like he does. No one’s ever kissed me the way Ronald Weasley just did.

God knows I didn’t go into this thinking I could keep him, but with every desperate kiss, every blinding shiver of desire his curious fingers send down my body, with every second of giving into him, it becomes harder to imagine I’ll ever have to give this up. The perfect way his tongue fills my mouth, the way his body moulds against me like it was made to fit against mine, the way he makes my skin feel as if it had melted against his… oh, yes. Yes. It’s becoming harder and harder to ignore that this man was made for me; like the perfect match, like the one, I was meant to be with. The thought is as scary as it is arousing, and when he knocks me backwards, onto the green-velvet covers of my very own bed, I don’t object. I pull him on top of me like it’s a matter of life and death, and initiate another one of those bone-melting kisses that has me arching against him within seconds, desperate for more contact.

“Why this bed?” he wants to know, while his sloppy, aggressive mouth slides down my neck, leaving a trail of marks in their wake. “This is yours, no? Do you bring all your conquests here?”

“No, I… No.”

I can’t tell him. Even now, when he’s taking me apart with that divine mouth and caressing hands, I can’t tell him that he’s the only one. That one simple “No” will have to do. He’ll have to guess the rest.

But then his fingers tear through my expensive robes like he wants to tell me he cares nothing for my riches, that they’re simply in the way of the one treasure he cares about, and I come close to breaking. I have to swallow down the words _“I was waiting for you”_ , because… God, because I don’t want to scare him away, all right? The last time he kissed me breathless I ruined it when I called him by his name. He’s not ready for the truth. Perhaps he’ll never be ready. And I’m not ready to give him up. Half a truth will have to do.

His fiery head buries into my chest, and I yelp as soon as his sensual lips find my nipples. But, God, how could I not? I have no hope of staying silent when he drives me mad with his mouth. It seems his tongue was made for that maddening licking, laving, and teasing, and the very sight of my dark-red, pebble-hard peaks caught between his scraping teeth is enough to send sparks of desire straight to the bottom of my spine. He’s to die for.

And just when I think I can’t take anymore, he rubs his freckled cheek against my chest in one loving gesture, and looks me in the eye.

“You’re beautiful,” he says simply, and because it's him those words make my heart flutter in my chest like a trapped bird. Gods... Don’t let anyone tell you Ron Weasley’s charms can’t kill. The bastard must have practised offing me. My heart seems to be pounding in my ears, as if going for a quick escape, and I can’t seem to catch my breath.

“You didn’t think I was going to be?” I whisper, and he just smiles that savage, dark smile that breaks my heart.

“I couldn’t imagine you were going to be this beautiful,” he says quietly. “You’re perfect.”

“It’s all yours,” I breathe before I could stop myself, and then I realise how closely I’ve once again come to revealing how much this… he… this means to me. “It’s all yours… for tonight. If you want it.”

“Oh, I want it,” he says darkly. “I’ve wanted it for far too long.”

And that quiet confession just takes my breath away.

“How long?” I want to know in a shaky voice when he’s already kissing down my body, and I get to bury my fingers into that silken warm hair to at least keep some semblance of control.

“Too long,” he breathes a line of kisses from my navel to the edge of my trousers. He then gently tilts his head to rest on top of the hot, desperate bulge between my legs, and looks me in the eye. The added pressure does nothing for my failing self-control, and I whine miserably.

Once again that beautiful, dark smile –  my smile, a smile for me –  spreads across his pale, freckled face, and he bites his lip playfully: “Guess… Guess right, and you can pick your prize: you get to tell me what you want. Anything goes, Malfoy. How about that?”

He rubs his face against my trapped shaft once again, and a sudden surge of lust makes my hips buck towards him. His blue eyes go a shade darker, and the sexy smile turns entirely savage.

“God, yes,” he murmurs. “Mean, blond, beautiful bastards with hard, delicious cocks get to choose. Your call, gorgeous.”

I mean… how could I not… fucking worship him?! How? With a mouth that filthy? With that pretty, sexy smile daring me to play with him, even when I knew I couldn’t… I wouldn’t want to win. Even in bed he drives me absolutely batshit crazy, and I can’t help myself falling for him, following him wherever he’s willing to take me.

“Since tonight…” I breathe, deliberately getting it wrong, just to make our little game last longer.

He just shakes that fiery head and begins to mouth the swollen mound under my tented trousers.

“ _Jesusfuck_ ,” I hiss, the pressure in my balls turning blinding. I might have to cut this game short because watching Ronald Weasley go down on me, his sharp white teeth undoing the laces on my trousers, turns out to be my ultimate poison. “Since two weeks ago… since that bloody auction.”

“Nah,” he chuckles softly, before pulling my trousers and my pants over my hips with such unexpected force, I simply moan at such blessed savagery. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

My cock is right there, an inch from his mouth, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen it quite so desperate. Thick, purple and glistening at the top, it even looks like it’s ready to burst.

“Oh, yes…” he whispers, and the way he’s looking at me, and my heavy, swollen shaft –  like a predator about to make a fatal move –  makes my balls heavy, and I suddenly need this, need him, more than I ever needed anything in my life. So I blurt out what I think is a fair guess.

“Since the Ministry reception… ahhhhh… _ohGodRon…_ ”

Fuck. I did it again. I said his name, making what could be a simple, uncomplicated fuck, into something a thousand times more intimate. But I couldn’t help myself. _He licked my cock._ Ronald Weasley, my arch enemy, my obsession, the thorn in my side who knows just how to drive me nuts and then some, the star of my every wanking fantasy... licked my cock. You try to do better.

But for once I’m lucky. He doesn’t seem to notice I’ve used his name. Must be, because he’s too busy wrapping that greedy, tender mouth around my shaft… and sucking gently… and then not so gently. _OhmyfuckingGod…_ All my thoughts, regrets and other nonsense instantly flies out of the window. This… yes… _ohgodyes… MotherofJesus…_ The very sight of him buried in my lap, those pretty rosy lips travelling up and down my cock is enough to make my balls feel as if they’re about to burst. I’ve fantasised about this so often, and it was never quite as heart-stopping as the real thing. Not only are my bones turning to liquid fire under his mouth, my heart is unravelling at alarming speed.

When it happens next, I barely notice it.

“Ron!” I gasp, and yelp, and moan all in one. “Ron, please… I want...”

“Shhhh,” he whispers, and the sweet vibration around my cock almost makes me blow my load. “I don’t want to know. You haven’t earned it yet.”

He finally takes my cock into his large hand, possibly to give his abused mouth a little break, but the pressure inside his fist is no less mind-bogglingly good, and I just mewl helplessly when the giant, warm palm of his hand begins to travel up and down my length. Oh God, yes... _Oh fucking God._ He’s making a believer out of me.

“Ron…” I try again, all but pleading, because I’ve got to tell him, I’ve got to make him…

“Don’t… No cheating, gorgeous,” he says quietly and his other hand crawls to the absolutely fucking glorious bulge in his trousers. It takes him a blink before he frees his own cock, and I… I… _ohMerlinJesus_.

That’s one royal cock right there. I guess I got it right on the first attempt: Weasley was a true-to-God King. I’ve never seen a cock more angry and ready, but I’ve never… oh, Merlin’s balls, I’ve got to tell him. I nearly came at the sight, and he still doesn’t know.

“It’s all for you. I can’t wait to let you have it,” he whispers darkly, and I mewl in frustration. “But I can’t. Not until you get it right.”

 _OhGodMerlin…_ of all the stupid games…

“Since that last day at Hogwarts…” I throw at him, suddenly desperate to get it right. “You know… at the battle… when you slapped me… _ohfuckingMerlinJesus_ , what are you doing?!”

He spreads my legs and begins to mouth the sensitive skin of my thighs, licking everywhere but my cock, sucking my balls in gently, one after another, and his hand around my shaft merely serves as a cock-ring, making sure I can’t come. Bastard. That incredible, beautiful bastard. He only stops for a second to say _“No…”_  then goes right back to making me fall apart. When his tongue slowly makes a wet trail to my pucker, flickering over it probingly, my whole body arches as if it just flew off its hinges.

“Merlin, Weasley… I…”

“You’ve never done this before,” he says quietly… and here it is, my big secret.

No… I haven’t. Oh, don’t get me wrong: I’ve been with girls enough, I’ve kissed them, I’ve touched them, I’ve fucked them. First, out of curiosity, and later out of desperate urge to maintain a reputation as a ladies’ man. But for all my cockiness and arrogance I’ve never been with a man. Not even in the most innocent sense of the word. I’ve never kissed a man before I kissed him. And I’ve certainly never come close to coming into one’s fist. And at the same time I realise another thing: “But you have…”

“Yes,” he says simply, without bothering to even stop that maddening teasing of my tight, innocent arsehole. And a sudden surge of blinding jealousy and arousal at the thought of him fucking… oh God… someone else… makes me sink my fingers into his shoulders like claws. That at least gets his attention.

“Who?” I want to know breathless and desperate, and it comes out as a hiss. He looks me in the eye, but for once I’m not ready to relent. I want to know. I deserve to know who I’m up against. Merlin, I hope it’s not…

“Everyone I could get my hands on, you idiot,” he says quietly, but his blue eyes are hard, and he doesn’t smile as if he knows how important this is to me. “Just experimenting. Not going all the way. I’m a Weasley, you have _no_ idea how it felt when I was turning into a man… I’ve got older brothers, you know? I was stuck in a dorm with a bunch of hot-headed, randy teenagers…. What do you think happened? We were Gryffindors, the brave ones, not the prudent ones. Seamus certainly wasn’t. Dean wasn’t either, though it took him longer. It made Neville less awkward. And Harry, as shy as he was at first, needed something playful and uncomplicated in his life. Just a bit of boys’ fun. You never had that?”

I shake my head angrily because I haven’t had anyone to teach me, show me, guide me, help me experiment  –  not back then, not now, not ever. My Slytherin peers were a bunch of backstabbing bastards I’d sooner hex than fuck  –  and I only ever wanted him. I’m not about to tell him that, but I don’t push him away either. I can’t. His little confession would have made the old Draco, the haughty Draco, Draco there was no sign of anymore, push him away, throw insults at him and run, chasing his dignity. But his honesty is spell-binding, and something perverted inside of me seems to get off on the thought of young Ron Weasley, lying in his Gryffindor bed with another naked boy touching him. It hurts and it turns me on madly, and it’s that perfect combination of pain and pleasure I always connect with him, and him alone.

As if he could guess my internal struggle he slides up my body and gently kisses that sensitive spot under my ear that makes me see stars.

“Don’t be like that,” he whispers. “It was just a bit of fun; you know how it is... The girls' curves are all fine and dandy, but there’s nothing  –  and I mean _nothing_  –  like having a fist full of hard cock about to burst, and a panting, breathless, desperate boy at the other end of it. I love it. I _fucking_ love it," he breathes into my ear and the fire in his voice makes my anger melt like wax in the hot sun. Merlin, yes... yes, I know... I know perfectly well what he's on about. It's what brought us together. But he's not done with me yet.

"You know, I panicked when I came to realise that I was the only one that loved it more than I should have," he whispers, and nibbles on my earlobe. "But there was something else that scared me even more.”

His hard, hot cock is pressed against my own, and his hips are moving in a gentle, maddening rhythm, and I can’t think, I can’t breathe, I can’t… not do this.

 “What was it?” I whisper, though I realise there’s a good chance that another little confession is going to splinter my heart into little bits. But Ronald Weasley is pain as well as pleasure, I might as well let him come and wash over me. I can't run from him. I came for this. For him.

“It scared the living daylights out of me that I only kept seeing one boy when I closed my eyes. _One. Boy._ And no one else," he says quietly, unrelenting, and a shiver runs down my spine

I can barely keep a pathetic _“Please, don’t”_   to myself. I think I know what’s coming, and I don’t think I can take it. Must I always compete against him? I can’t take that bloody name… but there's no room for lies and half-truths between us tonight. I brace for the inevitable. 

“I was silly enough to fall for this one boy that I should have nothing to do with,” he whispers in my ear, and his quiet confession comes like a storm I cannot stop. “One beautiful _blond_ boy that despised me, hated me, mocked me, humiliated me and thought me beneath him.”

Oh…

“The one boy that made me hate myself,” he tells me, and the fire in his voice has me slowly melting into a golden mess of pure need and raw hunger. “The boy I hated, and wanted, and dreamed of fucking into the bloody floor. The most beautiful boy in the whole world. Poised, elegant, clever  –  everything I never was. A vile, cruel boy, who’d never want me. My boy. And when I closed my eyes he _was_ mine. Only in my head, behind my closed eyelids. All mine.”

He takes my breath away. Like, no air comes. Why do I always let him do that to me? And now my vision is swimming because I can’t bloody breathe from these fucking tears while he’s simply kissing the wetness from my cheeks with that quiet, loving care that always made my heart ache, even watching it from afar. And when his lips meet mine, salty from the tears I try so hard to ignore, that one perfect time-stopping moment is born that is going to carry me through life no matter where my fate takes me.

“Always,” I whisper the right answer, and he just smiles against my lips: “Yes.”

I already knew. I think I’ve always known. We were always a thing. He was always there for me... to hate... to despise... to dream and obsess about. And there’s just one thing left for me to do. It's not even a choice anymore.

“Make love to me,” I ask quietly because now I was promised a prize, and this is what I choose. “All the way. It’s what I want. I know we can't make any promises beyond this evening but we've got tonight, and I want it all the way. With you. Everything you’ve got. And Ron…”

He looks at me, and finally smiles that dark, sad smile. And with my fingers buried into that lustrous, silken hair, I can finally tell him the truth: “You were my boy as well.”

He makes a small, choked sound, like a wounded animal, and I have a feeling that I might have opened and healed an old wound with those words.

“And now I want you to be my man,” I whisper in his ear. It seems my fried brain forgot that I’ve never done this before and that I should be scared and nervous and all those things that go with the first time.

“You want it?” he murmurs sweetly, and it makes me smile to hear my own words used against me.

“Oh, yes,” I breathe straight into the mouth of my arch-enemy, my opponent, my perfect contrast, my perfect fit. “I want it. For too long.”

“Fuck…” he utters quietly, and there’s a tiny spark of old insecurity at the bottom of those lovely eyes. “This was so much easier when I thought it was only me. But now I don’t want to hurt you, and I want you so badly, and I…”

“Don’t,” I put a finger on his mouth. “Don’t do this. Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough. I want you to fuck me, Ronald Weasley. Hard, Ron. I want you to show me everything you know, and I don’t even care where you learned it… older brothers, indeed, you ginger pervert.”

He finally smiles that cheeky smile that lights up his eyes, and I bite his lip for good measure because… oh, because he's too fucking beautiful and I can’t bloody resist him, all right?

“I want you to take me apart,” I pepper his pretty, freckled face with tiny, inviting kisses. “Take me apart with everything you’ve got, Ron. That delicious tongue you drive me nuts with... that fucking talented mouth I pictured around my cock more times than I can count... those big, gorgeous hands all over me… you... inside me… That cock, man…”

“Family heirloom,” he chuckles, but my needy affections have done their job well, and his brilliant eyes are already hazy and coloured with lust. But then he's all over me again, crushing me underneath him, and his hungry, merciless mouth is once again stealing my breath away.

“Fuck that... fuck that slow shit,” he whispers quietly, and I’m loving it. I love his aggression, I love how uncompromisingly himself he is. I don’t even want to think about letting him go. And I can’t think at all when his big hand crawls between our bodies and takes both our cocks in it. I mewl at the incredible feeling, at the hot hardness under the deceptively silken skin, and… _Godyesthis_. This is what I need.

You know, I loved his mouth around my cock when we started this mad dance of desire. The very sight of him nearly made me shoot down his throat, and the feeling… I can’t even go there. But this… The sensation of his hard rod moving next to mine, trapped in the tight cage of his calloused hand, so big and solid, so very near bursting... That sensual, shallow hot breath teasing the sensitive skin under my ear, being touched _down there_ and kissed _up here_ at the same time… ohhhh… And for once I don’t want to close my eyes, because those stunning blue orbs are focused on my face as if he really wants to be sure he’s here, with me… This is what I’m here for. I knew this was beyond lust. No act of lust is so intimate. No mere act of lust is so very intense that it makes every inch of my skin pulse with the magic of it. Everything… feels... _more_.

I know I can’t stop myself toppling over; not this time. I can’t. I won’t. He brought me to the edge once again, and now I want it. I know it is the simplest of pleasures, perhaps something two randy teenage boys might be found doing, but it is with him, with Ron, all mine for the night, and that makes it priceless beyond compare. I’ll get the rest… later… _ohGod_.

I can feel my nipples tingling with arousal when his hips grind against mine, over and over again, and when he breathes into my ear _“So close, precious… God Almighty, you’re beautiful like this”_ , the thick swirling heat pooling in my groin intensifies unbearably. My balls turn tense and heavy to the point of bursting, and I barely get a moment’s warning.

“Ron…” I manage. “I’m going to…”

But whatever was holding my release at bay, snaps with a vengeance, and my body arches towards my master like an offering.

“Ron!” I hear myself crying out his name, but then I’m already spilling all over his fist and drowning in white-hot bliss, my toes curling in godless pleasure. Merlin… I guess I only thought I knew about sex… until now. Until Ron.

“Fuck… beautiful…” he moans, and a moment later he stills and bites my shoulder as a shot of warm liquid floods the hot nest between our bodies. I swear I could feel the small sprinkles of liquid land on my nipples. Yeah… I’m going to need a repeat of that. I’d love to see it, but I couldn’t, for the love of God, bring myself to open my eyes. In the darkness beyond them, with a hot, heavy body pressing down on me, I’m perfectly happy.

But then his fingers pick up my limp, exhausted hand, and run it through the pool of liquid on my stomach.

“Look, ours…” he whispers, and this time I do open my eyes… just in time to see him bring my wet fingers to his mouth and suck them in. An unexpected jolt of arousal makes me gasp, and he smiles like the redheaded devil he is. He runs his fingers through the pool of our come once again, and when his wet  fingers run across my nipples, and begin rubbing them gently, the sense of cool liquid and the sheer depravity of his actions makes me shiver. My nubs stand to attention like they were ordered to. God, he knows how to play filthy… And that’s just the beginning. He finally lets his mouth handle my nipples, and the sensation of the warm lips around the sensitive flesh makes me moan wantonly.  But his fingers have not stopped spreading the slick juices all over my body, and just the thought of how very wrong that is makes my skin bristle with sweet anticipation.

“I want to spread our come all over you,” he murmurs quietly, the edge of arousal making his voice sound almost ominous. “And then I want to lick it off you… slowly… I’d lick you clean, you beautiful depraved bastard, knowing that you’re loving every second of it. Here, all the way down to your navel… down that silken moonshine carpet between your legs…. And there.”

His wet finger slips between my buttocks and presses against my pucker deliberately, with measured pressure, just enough to make my body fly off the mattress with shocking excitement. It sure as hell gave me the idea of what was coming.

“I want to fuck you now,” he says quietly, but the held-back fire in his voice makes the charge run through me as if I didn’t quite get enough of what I came here to get. “I would have done it before but I wanted you too much; I would have hurt you. But now I can. Let me?”

I just nod, with a heart beating madly in my throat. I don’t think I can voice my agreement. I’m finally properly nervous and my every nerve-ending is tingling with anticipation. More so, when I remember he never went all the way either. Oh, Merlin’s hairy balls, what are we doing?! I watch him, mesmerised, when he sits back on the balls of his heels and points his wand at his hand. After a whispered charm  –  another one I’ve never heard  –  a small pool of liquid appears. It's golden-coloured and it smells divine.

“I don’t want to hurt you, and this helps.” He smiles at the sight of my hypnotised eyes. “It’s just herbs in an oily ointment; it’ll make everything easier.” He pauses a little and blurts out: “I don’t want to hurt you. It’s your first time and it has to be good…”

“Go on, then,” I tell him because I can feel his nervousness and the marks of self-doubt; something that’s never that deep under the surface in the heart of one Ronald Weasley. Besides, I’d asked for it, didn’t I? I want him to know that I haven’t changed my mind. “Make it good then,” I whisper, and that spark I know so well lights up the spellbinding eyes like blue fire.

“Challenge accepted,” he chuckles darkly, and he no longer hesitates. “Spread your legs. You’re going to look gorgeous.”

God, I already feel decadent following his order like this, but I close my eyes and try to picture the sight I make. I smile at the sound of a half-silenced whimper, and a “Fuck… I knew it. Draco Malfoy, you look utterly depraved,” he breathes. “Like some ancient, forbidden, debauched god, made to seduce…”

At the same time his smooth, oiled fingers sink between my arse-cheeks, and it's my turn to go breathless. His touch is warm, relaxing and arousing all in one  –  but when his fingers once again begin massaging my tiny, needy hole, I mewl helplessly. Merlin, this is… this is the most undoing feeling ever. The pressure alone makes my skin erupt in goosebumps, but then one of the fingers slips in - and I just freeze. This… _invasion_ is just… it’s just…

“Relax,” he whispers, and I follow his voice like hypnotised. I try to control my breathing, but this feeling is so foreign, so intimate, so bloody intense that my body wants to fight it... while it screams for more. 

His finger moves a little, making small circles, stretching me carefully, and though my brain is still busy stuttering that this unknown intrusion is somehow _wrong_ , something inside me melts and I moan a little in surrender. How can something wrong feel so bloody right?

“More,” I whisper because I’m ready and my senses seem on fire with anticipation of the new, unknown pleasure. He pulls out for a second, just to add another finger, and Merlin, it’s… I’m…

“Shhhh,” he says gently upon seeing me lock up again. “Just say the word and I’ll stop. But in case you want a taste of what’s coming…”

He allows his fingers to slip in in further, turning the wrist slightly  –  and suddenly they slide against something... _OhmyfuckingGod…  the fuck…_ I gasp and I yelp at the same time, my body responding so violently I can barely comprehend what just happened. He does it again, rubbing a tiny spot inside me that I never knew was there, and I have no idea what this sorcery is, but that little place of heaven under his fingers sends jolt after jolt of insane pleasure to my every nerve-ending.

“What… is this?!” I finally manage, but he just chuckles softly in reply.

“You know… I have no fucking idea,” he says with that naughty mirth that makes him so irresistible. “I just knew it was there and that it felt incredible… It’s not like I can just ask Hermione, can I?”

Fair point… especially because he keeps massaging that gorgeous spot gently, until my bones feel as if they have liquefied and my swollen, purple cock lies like a stiff, thick rod against my belly, buzzing with come.

“Are you going to put it in now, or what?!” I blurt, because I think I’m finally ready… My body is tingling with anticipation of pleasure and if I’m ever going to be brave enough to try this, it’s now.

He chuckles once again, and kisses me in the corner of my mouth.

“Such a bossy little thing,” he murmurs. “You sure you can handle it, Your Majesty?”

“Yes! Please... yes. I… I want to try,” I blurt out honestly in a voice trembling with arousal because I stupidly keep picturing that beautiful, fat cock pounding into me, and I can barely form words.

“Just one more finger, I promise,” he tells me feverishly. “My cock is about to blow watching you writhe underneath me, it’s not like I can take much more… but we need to. Just one more, trust me.”

All right, all right! Goddammit… I mean, I’ve got two of those thick, long fingers in, what difference is one more going to make?!

It turns out, a lot. The burn is now inevitably there, more present, more persistent, impossible to ignore. God, his fingers are massive… and they’re still not quite the size of his cock. And because I’m a pervert this way, the very idea of the girth of his cock actually melts some of my resistance. Oh, I want that monster in. I sure as hell do. He must have sensed my discomfort, so he adds some more of that soothing liquid, and now he’s back to spoiling me rotten by finding that spot again that makes my nipples stiff like pebbles with sheer pleasure. And just like that, that burning feeling no longer feels so important nor so very present.

He finally pulls his fingers out and I’m suddenly just… so damn empty. I’m aching with the strange, urgent need I’ve never felt before  –  a need to be filled again. I never knew it would feel this way, but I miss the burn, the edge of pain, the sheer presence of him. I need to be stretched and filled and completed. I need him inside me, I need him to fuck me, and I need it now.

“I’m ready!” I blurt out because I am; this is it, and I want it _now_ , fucking now!

“I promised, didn’t I?” he pants, and as soon as the tip of his cock replaces his fingers at my entrance I make a pathetic, needy sound because I’m spelled breathless and helpless at the promise of having him inside.

It hurts at first. It burns and it fucking hurts, but that’s what Ron Weasley is to me. He hurts. Always did, always will. Those fingers could not prepare me for how it would feel having his giant, hard cock invade me, inch by inch, pushing in slick, hot and unrelenting, like something that was always meant to happen - and now we’re finally there. I follow his voice again -  _“Relax, precious” -_  and as if by magic, the pain suddenly transforms into something entirely different. He’s finally in, all the way, to the point of the carpet of coarse hair between his legs teasing my balls, and I’m so full of cock that I’m completely still and afraid to breathe in. The very air seems to have gotten pushed out of my lungs, and I’m just lying there, caught in one timeless moment, looking into the blue eyes of my man. I’ll always remember that. It’s just so… time-stopping, so… defining. I’ve really got him. I’ve got Ron Weasley.

He finally breaks the spell by leaning down, and pressing a slow, sensual kiss onto my lips.

“All right there?” he whispers, and something in his strained voice suddenly makes the stillness and tension unbearable.

“Yes… I… Move,” I tell him but it’s barely audible and I have to say it again. “Move, you need to… yes!!! _GodRonyes_!”

It’s beyond and above what I could imagine. My whole world seems to shift and move together with him at the first shove of his hips, and it’s just this incredible feeling of... _Godyes_... being branded, filled up to the point of breaking, and just… fucked into the soft, innocent mattress of my childhood bed. Merlin, he’s rough; just like I tried to imagine he would be, and it’s something no one else could give me. I can’t imagine letting anyone else manhandle me like this, but with him, it’s just… natural. I love every breathless second of it. I know what this is. This is him owning me. Because Ron Weasley owns me. He always has. When he was nothing but a spiteful, defiant little boy in scrawny clothes... as an angry, hot-headed boy-man, standing up to the world and my barbed menacing mouth like no other… and now. He owns me now, buried deep inside of me, and I just know I won't ever allow anyone else in there. 

 _OhfuckingGod…_ He pushed into me at a different the angle, and he hit that sweet raw spot again, and now it’s all just a fucking orgy of pure, golden ecstasy spilling all over me like honey, and I hear someone beg for _“harder, deeper, fuck, Ron, more, baby more…”_   Merlin, it’s me, isn’t it?! _Jesusfuck_ , I can’t… I just can’t help myself, can I?! Not with him inside of me, wrecking me like this. He’s going for the ruin and I’m going to let him take me apart by every seam. I love it. _I fucking love it._ I’m staring into those stormy blue eyes, I’m being taken apart by the angry, heavenly cock of a redheaded devil above me, and I’m so close to bliss I can feel its sparks igniting on my skin.

“I love you,” I hear that same, stupid, breathless voice of mine, coarse from emotion, and right now I can’t even tell if I somehow fucked up what I wanted to say, or if my scrambled head, fucked empty of all brains, finally got it right.

He whimpers “Draco”, and his body tenses as if he was just hit with a whip. His cock sinks so deeply into me it feels like we’ve melted into one... and at the same time, I realise another thing: he’s called me by my name. He's called me by my name for the first time, so this has got to mean something. The second he leans forward to hungrily claim my babbling, worshipping mouth, I can feel my body arch towards him, to meet him, and my balls tense impossibly. It’s perfect. Like this, just like this. With his lips on mine it feels like our bodies have locked into a perfect, unbreakable unity, and I just… can’t stop myself. I let go with a scream.

Nothing could prepare me for the shocking bliss of my release. It hits me like a freight train, and it’s so incredibly overwhelming it feels like every fibre of my body is being torn apart. I was on the receiving end of a brutal Cruciatus curse once… and this feels much the same, only it’s pleasure, not pain coursing like fire current through every inch of my body pulsing with pure delight. I’m honestly just… gone for a few long moments; feeling everything, sensing the warm liquid flooding my aching hole, hearing a half-sob _“God, Draco… gorgeous...”_ , and it’s heartbreaking to hear him say so much with so few words.

But I’m not quite there yet, I can’t respond, I can’t tell him, floating in my universe of black and beautiful, that I can hear that unspoken emotion that doesn’t make it out of his mouth. But I can feel it. It’s all around me, and I bathe in it like in the starlight. He didn’t say it - but he doesn’t have to. It’s what brought him to me today.

When I finally come to my senses, I’m already crushed underneath him, and his heaviness is like a protective shelf around my utterly wrecked, exhausted body. I can’t move if I tried; might as well just lie here and take it. Take his warmth seeping into me, take his fingers sifting gently through my hair, the adorable grunt, and “shit” and “sorry”.

He tries to move to accommodate me, but somehow there’s an ounce of strength left in my muscles, and I don’t let him. He gives up quickly, and sighs as if in relief. I can’t just let him go, can I? He’s still inside of me, softened, wet, yet still a presence to be reckoned with. I don’t want to lose him. I just know that he’s going to break my heart and my world the second I let him go.

So I close my eyes, and I take it... and eventually, I doze away. When I wake up, it’s in his embrace. I’m no longer crushed underneath him, but pressing my face into his naked chest, clean, warm, with a big strong hand wrapped around my back, holding me close, and I can't recall ever being so perfectly happy and at peace. Can we stay this way? Can we please stay this way?

I hear the church bell chime in the distance, and I realise it must be near morning. Silver fingers of dawn are slipping through the tiny openings between the heavy green drapes, and I just know it was going to be a beautiful, crisp morning. I hate mornings. I hate their harsh, unforgiving cold. I already hate this one with all my heart.

He moves gently, and I tilt my head to see the lustrous sapphire eyes watching me intently.

“Morning,” he says in a subdued voice, and the sound of it makes my heart flutter in my chest. Merlin, did I really tell him I loved him last night? How come I’m not melting all over myself in regret? Instead, my head is strangely clear and focused, as if saying it out loud, admitting to myself and the world that I loved Ron Weasley, swept away all the clutter and nonsense, and the truth just made me… peaceful.

“I should go…” he starts, but my hand just lands on his forearm like a claw-like shackle, because I can’t put it into words how much I need him to stay.

“I can’t stay,” he says gently, but that sickening pain, buried at the bottom of his lovely eyes just breaks my heart.

He tries to push me away gently, but it feels like there’s something tearing between us, some invisible magic, and I’m clinging to him stubbornly like it’s a matter of life and death.

“Your parents will be around soon, and I don’t belong here. You’ve got a life to live; you were clear about not being able to make me any promises. I get it. You’re the last of your name, you’ve got obligations to live up to. You’re not going to throw it all to the dogs for me. No one sane would do that.”

Look, I know he’s right. I _know_ he is… but my body, still warmly nested in his arms, and my brain, still not quite up to the harsh reality of a new day, refuse to accept it. I want to stay here, in his arms, not roaming around the hostile world, looking for something I already found. I want to stay as we are and grow old with him. Dammit, must he undo me so?

“Hey,” he says softly, and only when his fingers gently pick up the wetness from my cheeks, I realise I’m once again bawling. “Don’t cry,” he whispers, and fuck… did he really have to say that?! I’m trying to swallow my tears so hard now I’m nearly choking. God fucking dammit, Draco, you sentimental weakling, get ahold of yourself!

“What… what are you going to do?” I finally blurt out, if nothing else, to divert attention from my miserable, pathetic self. “Will you go back to…”

I can’t even say it. I can’t say her goddamn name.

But then he shakes his head imperceptibly.

“That train has already left,” he says sadly and looks me straight in the eye with the resolve of a defeated man; a man with nothing left to lose. “I broke up with Hermione last night.”

Oh. _Oh._

“I’m not you, Draco,” he says calmly, and the fact that he uses my name, that he’s finally calling me by my name now, when I’m about to lose him, just cracks me on the inside. “I can’t plan a life with someone while dreaming about another. I couldn’t cheat on her. We had an argument because she wouldn’t go with me to the party, and I just… I needed to go and see you. She’s too clever to be fooled  –  so in the end I told her.”

“Told her what?” I utter, but it’s barely audible, or perhaps it’s just lost in the pounding in my ears.

“That I couldn’t do that anymore.” He shrugs. “Live a life the way she told me to. Constantly feeling that she could do better than I; always being made to feel as if I was dragging her down. It was different when we were Hogwarts kids. I had something to give back then. God knows that she  –  well, we, all of us, really  –  needed some unwinding with that god-awful war looming above us, and I’m good at that. I can do jokes to lighten the mood; I can be careless about what ought to be done so she can see that the world isn’t going to end when it isn’t. But we’re not in Hogwarts anymore, and I’m not…” he exhales miserably, and then laughs bitterly, “I suppose I’m not cut out to be very successful out there in the big, bright world. I’m just not the ambitious, clever bloke she could be proud of. And it bothers her, I can tell, but I’m done feeling guilty about that. I want someone to make me feel like I’m enough, just the way that I am.”

He looks at me with those bright blue eyes and finishes sadly: “It made her cry when I told her that. She’s got a good heart, my Hermione; I don’t think she realised how miserable I’d been. But then she asked me if I had found such a person.”

“And?” That’s about all my constricted throat can manage.

“I told her I found you,” he says quietly. “And that made her angry.”

Oh, that bitch! Who does she think she is?!

“Oh, because I’m such a poor choice compared to Miss I-don’t-mind-slighting-my-boyfriend, right?!” I bark sharply, but he just shakes his head with the determination of someone who’s beyond arguing.

“Don’t. Don’t take this out on her. She’s as good as they come. It’s me who’s seven sorts of fucked up.”

“If she’s so fucking great why aren’t you with her?!” I bark, clearly ready to cut some more wounds left and right because that what I do when I’m hurt  –  I lash out like a rabid Crup.

“She’s the best there is,” he says simply. “But she isn’t… right. She isn’t the right one for me.”

I… goddammit, what is one supposed to say to that?! That was… what was that?! Everything in me is trembling and off focus, and I have to bite my lip not to start bawling all over again.

“She was only angry because she thought I let you fool me,” he explains. “She told me you’d break my heart.”

And once again I’m out of smart, snarky replies that used to serve me so well. That fucking Mudblood… But she’s right, isn’t she? I’m about to. I’m about to give this... him up. Just last evening I was standing there with my back against him at the party, coming alive under that warm hand of his on my shoulder, planning our escape  –  and still making future arrangements with Astoria. Because I’m a Malfoy. That’s what we do. We break hearts and lives to follow our fucked-up, meaningless agenda.

He already got up, and he’s getting dressed. Just a minute from now he will leave me, and this… whatever this impossible, mad, wonderful thing between us was, will be beyond repair.

“That cold bitch,” I finally manage through my dry throat, just to say something. “I hope you told her to mind her own business…”

“Oh, no. No, I didn’t. What’s the point in lying to someone when you can’t even lie to yourself?” he says sadly. He looks at me with those bluest of blue eyes, ready to leave, and he exhales softly as if he decided to get something off his chest.

“I told her I knew you would break my heart,” he says with that quiet, unbeatable determination. “And I told her it was yours to break.”

And just like that he’s gone and I… I just close my eyes to stop the dread from coming. But instead of merciful darkness I still see the heavenly blue of his eyes. Goddammit… That fucking man… I hate him! God, I hate him! Why does he do that to me? He says a few choice words, and he unravels me so that I don’t even know which way I’m supposed to be going.

I’m just sitting on my bed  –  my childhood bed, ravaged, messy, and not quite the same bed as last night  –  and I seem to be frozen in the terrible limbo of my revolving thoughts. It isn’t until a couple of hours later when Fussy, our house-elf, comes to check on me and informs me that I’m expected for breakfast. How the fuck am I even supposed to do this? How can I do this for the rest of my life?


	4. The only way

This breakfast is going to be a fucking nightmare.

My parents are well-aware of my attendance at last night’s party, and they  –  well, Father in particular  –  must be anxious to know how the “Greengrass business” had progressed. I'd rather have a hippogriff sit on me for a good portion of a day than endure my father's interrogation but in the end, I oblige their request, as I always do, and I get dressed. My mind is that merciful sort of blank that will allow me to lie, smile and have a perfectly normal meal with my parents while being perfectly dead on the inside. I have little choice. It’s not like I could walk in there, into our sun-lit breakfast parlour, and tell them I’m not willing to marry Astoria  –  or anyone else for that matter  –  because I want Ron Weasley and no one else, is it? If Father was to somehow survive the news, I probably wouldn’t make it to the door alive.

The mere idea of it makes my heart beat faster, though, and for once in my life, I wish I wasn’t such a coward. But the thought of making my father mad or disappointed when he’s already been through so much in the last few years still makes me sick to my stomach. And I have obligations. It’s different for Weasley; there are so many of them… but I’m the very last Malfoy. I _need_ to reproduce or we’ll just… we’ll die out like the Black family did. Another sickening thought. And I’d be left without anything. Surely my father would disown me. What would I do? Where would I go? Who would hire me? Well, I’m a fairly decent potioneer, but with that mark on my arm…  no. Not happening.

Merlin’s golden balls, I can’t believe I actually gave this… preposterous lunacy some serious thought! That’s what Weasel does to me, every bloody time. I don’t see the man for nearly two years, and at the first contact my mind - usually quite willing to be sensible - simply goes bloody bananas! But it’s time to say goodbye to my daydreaming of rebellion. I’m nowhere near courageous enough to stage a one-man coup.

“Mother, Father,” I nod when I enter the breakfast parlour, and I try to pretend that instant flare of expectation in my father’s eyes doesn’t fall on my shoulders like a ten-tonne hammer.

I barely take a seat behind the table when he’s upon me.

“Well, how did it go? Did you make further acquaintance with the Greengrass girl? Is she well-mannered? Interested? My contacts tell me she’s absolutely flawless  –  and quite a beauty to boot! Well? Have you turned a mute? Speak, boy!”

God, I hate it when he makes me feel like I’m two inches tall. He’s the one to talk of manners, indeed… Luckily, my mother has enough grace for both, and she’s by no means afraid to interfere.

“Lucius!” she says quietly, but so adamantly, he rolls his eyes like a scolded child. “You will most certainly let our son enjoy his breakfast without this ridiculous interrogation.”

My mother might be a Malfoy by marriage but deep down inside she’s still a Black, and sometimes I have the feeling she scares the living daylights out of Father. By now he must have figured out the little-known fact that cost the Dark Lord himself his reign: Mother is the more unscrupulous one of the two of them, and terribly protective of me. In his drunken haze, Father once pondered upon the possibility that the Dark Lord refrained from doing me any harm because he wasn’t sure that my mother hadn’t protected me with the same magic Lily Potter had used to save her son.

As always, she's keeping me safe for now, and I'm silently thanking her for buying me some reprieve. But it’s only temporary. I’m deliberately taking forever to get my morning coffee ready because I'm well-aware that it is the last thing standing between me and the moment I will doom myself.

I almost inhale the first cup of hot, dark, rich liquid, and I close my eyes just to fully enjoy the strong, soothing flavour. Strong, sweet and intoxicating, just like… Oh, god - my mind didn’t just go to Weasley, did it?! Merlin, is there no escape to my madness?!

“Would you care for some cream, dear?” I hear my mother’s voice, but I’m still submerged in my own thoughts, and I reply absent-mindedly:

“No, thank you, Mother. I don’t wish to marry Astoria Greengrass.”

_Oh, God  –  what?!_

_What.The.Fuck.Just.Happened?!_

My eyes fly open to a sight of my parents, staring at me wide-eyed, bewildered, and completely flabbergasted. Merlin’s holey socks, this was about the cream; I swear it was about the goddamn _cream_! Not about blurting my scrambled mind out! Obedient son here, hello! I’m barely related to that rebel Sirius Black!

I open my mouth, ready to fix it; convinced I’m about to make it all better – and this flies out: “I’m in love with Ron Weasley. I’ll have no one else.”

Right. Uhm, so I… _ohHolyMotherOfJesus…_  Who stole the cowardly ol’ me and can they please bring me back?! I’ve been hexed, clearly. Possibly. Or just… seriously unhinged. Fucked empty of common sense? Any other ideas? I guess that’s it. Copulating with a Weasley clearly had devastating effects on this full-blooded Malfoy.

 _“What… did you just say?!”_ Father hisses with such old malice, I literally jump from my seat. Hell, I barely stop myself from crawling underneath the chair! I'm all too busy mentally thanking all those ancient harpies of the Wizengamot for their wise decision to issue a lifetime ban of possessing a wand to my father. He looks just about ready to annihilate me before Mother finally collects herself enough to intervene.

“Lucius,” she starts, but this time he pays her no attention. He is all but foaming at the mouth.

“Did you hear that, Narcissa?! Did you hear what _your idiot son_ had just said?! Ron Weasley?! That’s Arthur Weasley’s _son_ , Narcissa, not even a daughter!!!”

But this new, stupid me hasn’t quite spilled all the madness out yet.

“Protest all you like; I’m ready to leave if I have to. I can’t live my life the way you tell me to.”

Merlin, I even sound nuts - as in, stubbornly defiant. And God’s favourite knickers –  did I just paraphrase Weasley?! Oh no… Please, no one tell the eleven-year-old me how this ends; I'd be devastated!

“Of course I’ll have you leave!! You’ll leave this minute!! You won’t see a Knut of my…”

And this is the point where Mother knocks him out. Discreetly, no big, awe-inspiring moves. One moment he’s standing – and the next he’s lying unconscious on the floor. Perfect aim, because Mother is totally badass. If the Wizengamot fools saw _that_ I wonder which of the two would end up without their wand. From where I stand it seems my father might need one for his own protection!

“Your father needs rest,” Mother murmurs, then gets up from her chair gracefully, and takes my hands into her elegant, slender palms.

“Darling… This is a hard road you’ve taken.”

“Yes!” I blurt out, the consequences of my action slowly slipping into perception, and I'm suddenly terrified. “I know.”

Merlin, what have I done?! And for whom?!

“Are you absolutely _sure_?” Mother wants to know. “Is it even… mutual?”

Her clever eyes are on my face, and though I’m tempted to lie and tell her it was all just a poorly-constructed joke, something in her eyes won’t let me.

“Yes,” I sigh, resigned to my fate. “And yes. To both. It’s the only way.”

And then I’m nearly knocked backward by an absolutely stunning smile on her face. Don’t get me wrong: my mother smiles a lot. She gives out polite, stiff, cold, or approving smiles left and right – but I’ve never seen her smile quite like this. This is Narcissa Black smiling at me, and the way that smile lights up her face, it makes her look about two decades younger and absolutely beautiful.

“Oh, I’m _ever_ so glad!” she declares.

Er… huh?

“My baby boy –  in love!” she says softly, and I can barely recognise her with that sparkle in her eye. “Oh, I was so very much concerned Lucius was going to bully you into one of those god-awful loveless marriages that would make you utterly miserable, my dearest. I swear I couldn’t sleep a minute since he started with that _“Our line must continue”_ nonsense. I was willing to cut him some slack in case you were going to be able to find a young girl you’d appreciate _for the right reasons_  – but I felt something was off from that very first night he sent you out there. I swore to protect you, even if that meant protecting you from yourself and this unfortunate proclivity of yours to follow your father’s deluded reasoning! Indeed, you aren’t meant to have a life your father wants for you, darling." She smiles again. "Those were some fine, brave words! I'm ever so glad you discovered that your destiny is entirely your own.”

And just like that, a rock the size of Hogwarts slowly rolls off my heart. How did I not know such a heavy, unforgivable monster was even there all this time?

“So – will you support me? You will not... renounce me… or some such?” I blurt out, suddenly feeling as light as a feather, and just indescribably happy and free.

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. You’re everything _I_ fought for in that blasted war,” she says simply. “What I have is yours. However I can help, I will. Besides,” she adds with a perfectly wicked smile, “it would take a lot more than my only son making a valuable alliance to a pure-blood with adorable freckles and some rather considerable assets - in the _bottom_ department - to make your mother abandon you, dearest.”

“Mother!” I gasp, genuinely shocked, because I never once noticed my distinguished mother… well, _ogling_ anyone! I swear that woman is a bottomless well of secrets!

“Well, don’t act so surprised. Old as I may be, I’ve got eyes, you know,” she says lightly. “What I’ve seen of Ronald – in the few issues of that newspaper rag you subscribe to – he is as fine a specimen of a wizard as they come. Tall – well, perhaps a bit brutish, but I’ve always suspected you had a soft spot for that sort – and all that redheaded passion…”

She smiles again, naughtily this time – my mother, _naughtily_! – and leans in to kiss my cheek: “Yes, I dare say you’ll make a splendid couple,” she whispers. “But even if you were as mismatched as a pair of trolls, you have my full support as long as you follow your heart, my lovely.”

And just like that, I panic!

“I haven’t actually told him yet!” I blurt out. “He thinks I’m leaving him behind… He doesn’t think I’m willing to put it all on the line for him!”

“Now, that’s just utter nonsense if I ever heard any,” my wonderful mother declares. “There has yet to be a Black born that didn’t follow their heart most stubbornly and to the very end. We all did: Andromeda left it all behind for her Muggle-born, Bella followed that… absolute monster to her early grave and I’m still stuck with your father, through thick and thin... and all that rubbish. Even Sirius and his obsession with that Potter boy...” she sighs. “But never mind me, the old crow – you best rush after your chosen one and continue the fine family tradition of throwing it all to the dogs for those we love!”

“Mother,” I squeeze her fingers, suddenly filled to the brim with gratitude. “Mum… I love you. You’re the best there is.”

“Oh, shush,” she says quietly, and I notice her eyes are filled with tears. “When you were born I swore to make you happy, and I haven’t exactly succeeded as well as I’d hoped… so far. Might as well do my part now."

She discreetly wipes the tears out of the corners of her eyes, but then her weakness disappears behind the marble, impeccable façade of her face, and she's once again all business:

"Now, I dare say you better hurry. Those Weasleys and that damn temper of theirs are a breed of their own – you never know what folly they might do when they’re desperate. And desperate he may be if he thinks he’d lost you.”

Oh, my God  –  she’s right! She’s ever so right! What if Weasley… well, Ron… my Weasel begins to second-guess his decision of leaving Granger behind! Merlin – there’s not a moment to lose!

“Mother,” I peck her on the cheek as a means of a hasty goodbye, and I’m already busy Disapparating – and rather clumsily at that as it turns out. I’m still chewing on my pinky with a sadly misplaced fingernail moments later while banging on the door labelled “Auror Weasley” at the Ministry. Pain will make one do embarrassing things. Fear as well.

When there’s no immediate reply, I finally resort to the advanced, more elaborate version of banging on the door, called “shout _while_ banging”, which requires me to drop all pretence – and my pride.

“Weasley!!” I holler happily, as if drunk. “Ron! I need to talk to you!”

“Merlin, Malfoy!” someone barks behind me, and I mentally curse all saints and devils and their remote ancestors for sending Granger my way, of all people.

“What?!” I hiss back in annoyance, determined not to pay her any undue attention. “Weasley! Ron, come out!”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” she snaps viciously. “Stop banging the door down, you… delinquent! Ron isn’t here!”

“Oh…” I dare say I’m momentarily taken aback by this information… but in the end I decide not to be deterred. “Where is he then?” I ask with the arrogance of someone who came to claim what was rightfully his. 

“He doesn’t work here anymore,” she says quietly, acidly. “He came by this morning and cleared his office. He’s gone, Malfoy. No need for you to hang about any longer. You’ve done quite enough damage as it is.”

And I’m just standing there, feeling like a fool.

“But where is he?” I ask dumbly. “I’ve got something important to tell him.”

And that cold bitch doesn’t even bother to lie, imagine that!

“None of your business,” she spits curtly. “What do you want with him anyway?! You’re only going to hurt him more. He’d been crying, Malfoy, you utter… _fuck_.”

Normally, I’d be flabbergasted to hear he goody-two-shoes use such a crude word, but right now I’m too ticket off – no, not ticked off, but bloody _livid!_  – to bother with her and her lack of manners.

“For your information, you c…” I barely stop myself from sinking to her level. “You incredibly dimwitted woman!” I howl, finally finding a slightly less offensive solution. “I’ve just told my parents about us. I told my father I wanted no one but him; I put everything I own and everything I am on the line – for him. My wealth, my social standing, all my life ambition. I want no one but Ron, just like I told my father. Now, don’t you wish you’d done the same, Miss Let’s-give-your-very-personal-gift-away-for-charity-why-don’t-we?!”

Oh, but the expression on her face is totally worth it! She’s gone ashen, and she’s all but gawping at me. Too bad I don’t get to rejoice at it more because I’m too bloody anxious she won’t let me know where to find Ron.

“At his brother’s,” she suddenly whispers, giving in so unexpectedly I barely catch her words. “At the joke shop. He’s going to work for George now. That’s in….”

“I know where it is,” I interrupt her. “Diagon Alley. I’ve been there.”

But, goddammit, if being with Weasel hasn’t permanently corrupted something inside of me. She looks so crushed she won’t even look at me, and I just… _ohHolyFuck_ , I no longer have it in me to gloat over her misery.

“Hermione…”  –  Merlin, I have to force this… saying her bloody name like we’re friends or something, “Thank you.”

She just nods, seemingly too devastated for words, but then she unexpectedly opens her mouth and says: “Hurt him and God won’t be able to save you. You’ll deal with me. If there’s any good left in you, Malfoy, you’ll make him happy. Or deal with me.”

“I’ll… try,” I tell her honestly, but at the sharp, mean look she shoots at me, I’m quick to offer more satisfactory assurances. “I’m kind of bonkers about him, you know. Have been for the better part of my life, actually. He’s so bloody infuriating and it was sort of hard to admit to myself, but… but I guess that goofy adorable face is just impossible to resist, isn’t it?”

And then impossible happens, and Hermione Granger smiles at me, for what is probably the first time – and possibly the last as well – in my life. Granted, it’s not a very happy smile, but I realise we made a fragile truce upon the one thing we have in common: we both love that damn, adorable Weasel.

“Treat him well… better than I did,” she tells me, and this time I just nod.

“Or deal with you,” I repeat her lesson dutifully, and this time her smile – oh, look, a second one! – appears more genuine.

I'm all done here. I made Granger smile at me twice, and that's enough scary stuff for today.

 


	5. Can't stay away

I Apparate into the midst of the biggest fucking crowd you can imagine. Seriously, it’s like a Weird Sister’s concert. Looks like Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes is all the rage these days. There are Hogwarts-aged girls fawning over a poffle of Pygmy Puffs, someone rather greenish violently vomiting onto the ground next to the basket bearing a sign _“Today’s offer: A free sample of Puking Pastilles – Take one!!”_ , and a variety of kids aged from eleven onwards pulling on their parents' sleeves to make them purchase this or that ingenious product or wicked invention. It’s a madhouse, honestly!

But too late I realise that they must have some sort of discreet wards in place – and it’s not until a big fist of a stocky redhead closes around my biceps that I realise that I must have triggered them. Oh, great. Fucking brilliant!

To recap: this morning I managed to get disinherited, I made my mother assault my father and – judging by the stormy look on the shop owner’s face, the mad genius George Weasley himself – I’m about to conclude my rather glorious morning by get tossed out onto the busy street in front of all these people. I’m strongly beginning to suspect that at some point in my life I had been cursed.

But rather than haul me towards the door, he rather unceremoniously pushes me behind the counter and crosses his rather intimidating arms across his chest.

“Well?” he barks, still looking at me as if he wouldn’t mind making a future ingredient for one of his potions out of me. “Why are you here?”

“For fuck’s sake,” I mumble, slightly irritated. “What a bunch of bullies you Gryffindors are. First Granger and now you… Looking for W…”  

At the last moment I reconsider calling my Weasley “Weasel” the way I've grown accustomed to because, er, you know, technically speaking, I'm talking to one Weasel as it is. Not _my_ Weasel but... you know.

"I'm looking for Ron, actually,” I conclude politely. "I was told I could find him here." I make a point of sticking up my nose in the air to discourage George from further interrogation. Yeah, like that was ever going to work…

“What for, eh?” he sticks his long nose and frowning brow into my face. “What would someone like you want with my brother?”

“It’s private,” I try because I don’t feel like explaining to this big oaf that I’ve found myself a disowned, unemployed pauper as of this morning  –  and why.

But it only makes him snort and it puts an ugly, mean smirk on his face: “You know what’s private?! Me, hexing you in your _private parts_ , you skinny snot! It doesn’t get more _private_ than that!”

And then I’ve kind of had it with the violent lot for this morning. First my father threatening to bestow god-knows-what horrors upon me, then Granger and her scary, bushy coiffure, and now this intimidating shorty and his overly protective, big brother attitude!

“In that case,” I say rather loudly – loud enough to attract some considerable attention, actually – “would you care to inform Ronald that I came here to profess my undying love for him, as I’ve already informed my parents of it, and got kicked out of my home on behalf of that?!”

You know that perfect silence when you could hear a pin drop? Yeah, that’s what my little outburst got me. They all appear just about frozen in time, and George has the decency to even look a little flabbergasted.

“Oh…” he finally manages. “Uhm, in that case… He’s in the back, unboxing the new product line. Why didn’t you say it was personal, you pillock?” he mumbles, looking uncharacteristically red in the face.

I look at him incredulously. “I said it was _private_!”

But he merely shrugs and gives me a lopsided, goofy grin that looks so familiar.

“I grew up in the Burrow. Can’t blame me if I barely know what that is,” he says matter-of-factly, but then his brow furrows once again. “And Malfoy… If you hurt him…”

“Yeah, I know, I know.” I wave my hand at him dismissively. “I have to deal with Granger.”

And much to my surprise, he chuckles warmly.

“Too right, you do,” he mumbles. “Say, you reckon she’s up to some weeping on a real man’s shoulder?”

Well, I never…

“The word is she’s freshly single,” I say dryly. “And I doubt her proclivity for dating slightly mad redheads has abandoned her overnight. I dare say it’s worth a try.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, suddenly looking cheerful again, and walks past me to the door leading to the back of the shop.

“Oi, Ronniekins!” he hollers as soon as he opens the door. “Your boyfriend is here. Says his privates want to talk to you.”

“Huh?” comes from inside the room.

“I’ve certainly said no such… oh, for goodness’ sake,” I roll my eyes at George’s evil grin and barely hold back from jabbing him in the ribs as I pass him on my way through the door.

“Don’t get any… bodily fluids on my merchandise. It’s brand new, you know,” he smirks cheekily, and I might have considered kicking the door into his smiling face if I wasn’t… distracted. Oh, my…

Because there he is. My Weasel… my Ron. He’s standing there, in the middle of the storage room, with a big heavy crate in his hands, shirtless, with his muscles bulging under the weight of his burden and drops of sweat sliding down his neck like a loose necklace. _OhmGod._ My knees go weak on the spot. He’s entirely gorgeous. I’m a horrible sucker for shirtless hunks, I’ll have you know.

He just looks at me for a long moment, his eyes big, brilliant blue and incredulous, and then he finally puts down the crate, and straightens up. Merlin, he’s glorious. I better get this awkward bit over soon!

“Draco? Merlin… What are you doing here?”

“I…” Oh, fucking great. All those eloquent words about my less than stellar morning apparently left my head without a goodbye. Unreliable little shits. He frowns and moves across the space to close the distance between us towards me.

“Are you all right? Is everything all right? You look a tad pale.”

His care just melts my heart. He would have been well within his rights ignoring me, or shouting at me to leave him the fuck alone, considering the circumstances we'd parted in. But that’s not him. That’s not my Ron. He’s loving and caring and all those things I want in a boyfriend. And I immediately get a confirmation of that when his arms wrap around me, and I get to lean my head onto his chest. God, he smells wonderful: pressing my head into his warm skin, I’m inhaling his wild, musky fragrance like an addict and I’m honestly getting high on this stuff.

“Draco?” he says once again and lifts my chin up gently to meet his eyes. “Whatever is the matter, love?”

“I came to tell you… that I’m not particularly sane,” I blurt out the first nonsense that comes to mind.

He frowns, and his thumb caresses my cheek gently.

“You’re not making any sense, you know that, don’t you?” he says gently. “I think you might be coming down with something. Let me get…”

“You told me that no one sane would throw it all to the dogs for you,” I keep babbling as if I was indeed feverish. “And I came here to tell you that I’m… probably not very sane. I told my parents about us. I told Father I don’t wish to marry Astoria… or any other girl for that matter. Because I only want you.”

His eyes are lit up like sapphires now and he’s the goddamn most beautiful sight on the planet.

“You did that… for me?” he whispers, sounding like a child that got all his Christmas gifts at once. He just breaks my heart. I can’t believe he’s willing to be mine. I’m not so big and strong on words right now, so I only manage a feeble, shaky: “Yes… So… I’m here now, because…”

 

_Because I’m bonkers about you._

 

_Because I’ve waited for you for ages, and I can scarcely believe I finally have a chance now._

 

_Because you’re everything I want in a man._

 

_Because I’ve found you and I’ve found myself._

 

_Because there’s no one better, braver, warmer, funnier, more loving, and more infuriating and I  –  I want no one but you, goddammit!_

 

Those all fit, but I can’t, for the love of God, say any of them, because I barely have any breath left. Merlin, why am I so stupidly overwhelmed?!

But suddenly he just smiles beautifully and absolves me from my breathless torment. He leans down, capturing my mouth, and delivers a single, perfect and so perfectly delicious kiss I could swear suddenly the very air around us tastes of sweet honey and roses. A few seconds into it I already need to close my eyes because my head is spinning.  

“Because you can’t stay away from me?” he suggests softly, and for once I’m quite willing to ignore the naughty, proud tone of his voice. Hell must have frozen over somewhere: my Weasel is right for once. I can’t believe I ever contemplated losing this.

“Yes!” I finally mumble like a Neanderthal, still very much preoccupied with drowning in that sensual bone-melting kiss. “I can’t stay away.”


End file.
